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 passage 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 patchwork cushions on the rush-bottomed chairs. The pots in the half-empty pot-rail were all askew, and the battered pewter and brass had ceased to put in its claim to be silver and gold. There was an out-of-date almanac under the old clock, and an ancient tide-table over the mantelshelf.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 space. 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 passages, 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 class, 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 asserted 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 nobbut 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 brass⁠—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’brass 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 nobbut 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!” + 

“You’d have had me say nowt, neither, yon day we was wed⁠—give her a kiss, happen, and praise her gown⁠—?” + 

“Nay, then, I wouldn’t, I tell you! Blast you! Nowt o’ the sort!” Simon was fairly shouting now. He thumped at the table in his rage. “I wish to Gox I could ha’ gitten my hands round her throat wi’out having to swing!” + 

Sarah looked at his prancing shape with the same ironic smile. + 

“Nay, my lad, there’s better ways than that wi’ Eliza, by a deal. D’ye think I haven’t gitten a bit o’ my own back, now and then? I’ve had my knife in her deep⁠—ay, deep!⁠—time and again. There’s better ways wi’ Eliza than just twisting her neck. What, this very day I’ve made her weep tears as she’s never wept afore⁠—tears as near tears o’ blood as Eliza’ll ever weep.⁠ ⁠…” She stopped, recalling the scene in which Nature had shone like a star in Eliza just for once.⁠ ⁠… “Nay, Simon,” she went on quietly, “there’s no sense in our getting mad. It’s over late to go preaching love atween Eliza and me. Men don’t know what hate can be between women when it’s gitten hold. It’s a thing best let alone⁠—never mentioned⁠—let alone. It’s a big thing, caged-like, as was small once, and then comes full-grown. It’s over late to go trying to stroke it through the bars.” + 

“I nobbut wanted to make the best o’ things,” Simon muttered, ashamed. “The Lord knows I’d give my hand to put you top-dog of Eliza just for once. But I’m not denying I’m terble thankful to ha’ fixed things up. I reckon I’ll sleep tonight as I haven’t for weeks. I’m right sorry, though, if you’re taking it hard.” + 

“I’ll take it right enough when it’s here,” Sarah said gently, turning away. “I won’t make no bother about it, don’t you fret.” + 

She picked up the kettle and set it on the fire, as if she meant to put an end to the talk. Simon lingered, however, casting uneasy glances at her face. + 

“I’ve a job in t’far shuppon to see to,” he said at last, and lighted the old lantern that swung against the wall.⁠ ⁠… “Yon’s tide, surely?” he added suddenly, as he took it down.⁠ ⁠… “Nay, it’s over soon.” + 

He lifted the lantern to look at the table above the shelf, but Sarah shook her head. + 

“Yon’s an old table, think on. It’s no use looking there. Tide’s six o’clock, it you want to know.” + 

He said, “Oh, ay. I’d clean forgot,” and still stood on the hearth, as if reluctant to go. Presently he spoke humbly, twisting the lantern in his hand. + 

“It’s real hard on you, Sarah, to come down like this. I don’t know as I like it myself, but it’s worse for you. But we’ve been right kind wi’ each other all these years. You’ll not think shame on me when I’m a hired man?” + 

She turned back to him, then, trying to see his face, and it seemed to him that she really saw him for the first time in many months. But, in point of fact, it was the eyes of the mind that were looking at the eyes of the mind.⁠ ⁠… And then, unexpectedly, he saw her smile. + 

“Nay, my lad,” she said strongly, “you mun be wrong in t’garrets to think that! If there’s owt to think shame on it’ll be stuff like yon. You’re the same lad to me as when we was wed, just as Eliza’s the same cruel, jibing lass. I reckon that’s where the trouble lies, if it come to that. Love and hate don’t change, neither on ’em, all our lives. D’you think I’d ha’ kept my hate so warm if I hadn’t ha’ kept love?” + 

He nodded doubtfully in reply, and began slowly to edge away. But before he had reached the threshold he paused again. + 

“Anyway, we’ve had the best on’t!” he cried triumphantly, as if inspired. “Eliza’s had what looks most, but we’ve had the real things, you and me!” And then, as she did not speak, the spirit died in him, and his head drooped. “Ay, well, we mun do what we can,” he finished lamely. “We mun do what we can. ’Tisn’t as if it’ll be so long for either on us, after all.” + 

“Shall I see to t’milk for you?” he added diffidently, but was refused. + 

“Nay,” Sarah said. “I can manage right well. I know they milk-pans better than my face. I’d like to stick to my job as long as I can.” + 

Simon said⁠—“Ay, well, then, I’ll be off!” and looked at the door; and stared at the door, and said⁠—“Ay, well, I’ll be off!” again. He had an uneasy feeling that he ought to stay, but there was that job in the far shippon he wanted to do. He wandered uncertainly towards the outer door, and then, almost as if the door had pushed him, stumbled into the yard. + 

II + 

Sarah stood thinking after Simon had gone, following with ease the troubled workings of his mind. The smile came back to her lips as she recalled his obvious sense of guilt. Behind all his anger and chafing humiliation it was easy to see his growing pleasure and relief. It was more than likely, indeed, that he would be priding himself on his new position before so long. Perhaps age, which has a merciful as well as a cruel blindness of its own, might prevent him from ever realising where he stood. She could picture him lording it over the gentler-natured Will, and even coming in time to dominate the farm. It was only for her that there would be no lording it⁠—and open sight. It was only on her account that he was still ashamed. + 

It was cruel to grudge him the little solace he had left, but the thing which eased the position for him would form a double cross for her. Hitherto, they had stood together in their hatred of Blindbeck and its female head, and in the very depth of their darkness still had each other to soothe their shame. But now Simon’s attitude was bound to alter at least towards the farm. There would come a day when he would turn upon her for some chance remark, and from that hour he would be openly on Blindbeck’s side. The new tie would make him forget those bitter upheavals of jealous rage. Slowly the place would come between them until she was left to hate alone. + 

For her, the change would simply deliver her, blind and bound, into Eliza’s hand. She could have laughed as she saw how the thing she had fought against all her life had captured her at last. Even with Eliza dead or gone, Blindbeck would still have stifled her as with unbreathable air. Her spirit and Eliza’s would have lived their battles again, and even over a grave she would have suffered and struggled afresh. But Eliza was neither dead nor mercifully removed, but was already snuffing the battle-smoke from afar. The whole account of their lives would come up in full, and be settled against the underdog for good. It was as whipping-boy to Eliza that she would go to the house by Blindbeck gates. + 

At the present moment, however, she neither suffered nor rebelled. Physically, she had reached the point at which the mind detaches itself resolutely from further emotional strain. The flame of hate burnt steadily but without effort, and with almost as pure a light as the flame of love itself. Like all great passions, it lifted her out of herself, lending her for the time being a still, majestic strength. There is little to choose at the farthest point of all between the exaltation of holiness and the pure ecstasy of hate. To the outside eye they show the same shining serenity, almost the same air of smiling peace. It is the strangest quality in the strange character of this peculiarly self-destroying sin. Because of it she was able to go about her evening tasks with ease, to speak gently to Simon in the little scene which had just passed, and even to dwell on his methods with a humorous smile upon her lips. + 

In the clarified state of her mind pictures rose sharply before her, covering all the years, yet remaining aloof as pictures, and never stirring her pulse. So clear they were that they might have been splashed on the canvas that instant with a new-filled brush. They sprang into being as a group springs under the white circle of a lamp, as the scenes the alive and lit brain makes for itself on the dark curtain of the night. The few journeys she had taken in life she travelled over again⁠—rare visits to Lancashire and Yorkshire⁠ ⁠… Grasmere⁠ ⁠… Brough Hill Fair. They had stayed in her mind because of the slow means by which they were achieved, but they counted for very little in the tale of things. It is not of these casual experiences that the countryman thinks when the time comes for a steady reviewing of his life, that intent, fascinated returning upon tracks which is the soul’s preparation for the next great change. They flit to and fro, indeed, like exotic birds against a landscape with which they have nothing to do, but it is the landscape itself which holds the eye, and from which comes the great, silent magic that is called memory, and mostly means youth. It is the little events of everyday life that obsess a man at the last, the commonplace, circular come-and-go that runs between the cradle and the grave. Not public health problems, or new inventions, or even the upheavals of great wars, but marriage, birth and death, the coming of strangers destined to be friends, the changing of tenants in houses which mean so much more than they ever mean themselves. Binding all is the rich thread of the seasons, with its many-coloured strands; and, backing all, the increasing knowledge of Nature and her ways, that revolving wheel of beauty growing ever more complex and yet more clear, more splendid and yet more simple as the pulses slow to a close. + 

She loved the plain, beautiful farming life that a man may take up in his hand because it is all of a piece, and see the links of the chain run even from end to end. Even now she could see the fair-haired child she had been still running about her home, the child that we all of us leave behind in our sacred place. She could hear the clatter of clogs in her father’s yard, and all about her the sound of voices which the daisied earth had stopped. It was strange, when she came to think of it, that she never heard her own. In all her memories of the child it seemed to her lip-locked, listening and dumb. Perhaps it was because she was shut in the child’s brain that she could not hear it speak. She could hear her mother’s voice, light and a little sharp, and her father’s a deep rumble in a beard. Even in the swift pictures flashing by her he looked slow, drifting with steady purpose from house to farm. Because of his slowness he seemed to her more alive than his wife; there was more time, somehow, to look at him as he passed. Her bustling, energetic mother had become little more than a voice, while the seldom-speaking man was a vital impression that remained. + 

Rising up between the shadows that blotted them out was a certain old woolly sheepdog and the red torch of the flowering currant beside the door. There was also a nook in the curve of the garden wall, where, under a young moon, she had seen the cattle coming across the fields, sunk to their horns in a fairy-silver mist.⁠ ⁠… + 

It was an open-air life that took her long miles to school, clogging on frozen roads, through slanting rain or fighting against the wind. School itself seemed patched in a rather meaningless fashion on that life, much as the books in the parlour on the busy, unthinking house. A life of constant and steadily increasing work, from errands of all sorts, feeding the hens and fetching home the cows, to the heavier labour of washing and baking, milking, helping with the stock. Presently there had been the excitement of the first shy dance, and then the gradual drawing towards marriage as the tide draws to the moon. + 

And all the time there had been Eliza making part of her life, from the plump little girl whom people stopped to admire to the bold intruder at the altar-rail. Looking back, she could see herself as a stiff and grave-eyed child, grimly regarding the round-faced giggler from the start. Even then she had always been the dumb man in the stocks, of whom the street-urchin that was Eliza made mock as she danced and played. Only once had she ever definitely got the better of her, and it had had to last her all her life. Eliza had had many lovers, drawn by the counterfeit kindliness which hid her callous soul, but when she had chosen at last, it was Simon who was her choice. Perhaps the one gleam of romance in Eliza’s life had been when she looked at Simon⁠ ⁠… and Simon had looked away. Quite early he had fixed his affections on Sarah, and during their long courtship he had never swerved. Plain, businesslike Sarah had drawn him after her as the moon draws the willing tide.⁠ ⁠… + 

She began to put away the things she had bought in Witham, stowing them in a cupboard between the pot-rail and the door. During the morning she had felt royally that she was buying half the town, but now she saw how small her share of the marketing had been. There was a troubled feeling at the back of her mind that something had been missed, and even though she was sure of her purchases, she counted them again. Afterwards, she stood muttering worriedly through the list⁠ ⁠… tea, candles, a reel of cotton⁠ ⁠… and the rest. And then, suddenly, without any help from the candles and cotton, she remembered what it was, and smiled at the childish memory that would not stay asleep. + 

More than twenty years, she reminded herself⁠—and yet she still looked for the fairing that Geordie had brought her on Martinmas Day! There had scarcely been any special season⁠—Christmas, Whitsun, Easter or Mid-Lent⁠—but he had remembered to mark it by some frolicsome gift. He had always withheld it from her until the last, and then had stood by her laughing while she unwrapped some foolish monkey on dancing wires. All the time he was saying how splendid the fairing was going to be⁠—“It’s gold, mother, real gold⁠—as bright as the King’s crown!” And when she had opened it, she would pretend to be cast down, and then put it snugly away and say it was “real grand!” + 

Jim had had his fairings for her, too, but she was trying her very hardest not to remember those. Jim’s had been prettier and more thoughtful⁠—often of real use, but she had long since forgotten what the things were like. A mug with her name on it, a handkerchief, a brooch⁠—long ago broken or lost, or even given away. But every ridiculous object of Geordie’s was under lock and key, with even a bit of camphor to keep the monkey from the moth.⁠ ⁠… + 

She stood there smiling, softly folding her hands, as if she laid them lightly over some sudden gift. On either side of her was a laughing face, and even she found it hard to tell which was which. She was very still as she made that perfect transition into the past, and the only sound in her ears was through the lips that laughed. And then, into that full stillness, in which no step moved or voice called or bird flew, there came the cry of a heron outside the door. + 

III + 

It did not reach her at first. She heard it, indeed, coming back to the present with the sound, but that Was all. The thing behind it had to travel after her over twenty years. The cry of the heron was natural enough, with a famous heronry so near, and it was only because of the exceptional stillness of the night that it drew her attention now. Her mind went mechanically to the high wood behind the Hall, to the long-necked, slender-legged birds going home to the tall trees that on this unstirred evening would be stiff as a witch’s broom. She even had time to remember the old legend of their battle with the rooks, before the thing that had been running for twenty years entered her consciousness with a rush. + 

She stiffened then. From being softly still she became a rigid thing, stiller than sleep, stiller than death, because it was passionate willpower that held her still. It was already a moment or two since the sound had passed, but it still rang in the ear which had seemed to refuse to take it in. It had flashed through her brain like a bright sword flung in a high arc through a night without a star, but the truth that was behind it she held rigidly from her even as it tried to step within. She knew that it was too low for a bird’s call, too sharp and clear in that muffle of mist, but she shut the knowledge out. She would not let herself either breathe or think until she had heard the sound again. + 

The shock was as great the second time, but it had a different effect. She began to tremble from head to foot; even her lips parted and shook; her hands relaxed and began to pluck at her gown. Her breath came in quick gasps that were almost sobs as her eyes strained towards the darkness that held the door. Her brain kept telegraphing her body that it must be still, but it was too strong for it, and paid no heed. Her heart alone, beating in hard, ponderous strokes, seemed as if by itself it must shut out any further sound; and when the call came the third time, breaking the silence so that it could not close again, her own power of restraint went by the board as well. Her hands lifted themselves and gripped each other across her breast, and her voice, shaken and full of tears, forced itself into her throat. “Jim!” she heard herself saying, “Jim!”⁠—with no knowledge that she had meant to speak, and in that one word admitted the final defeat of all her life. + 

Then the knocking began, the terrible brazen knocking which soulless iron makes on the unresponsive door of an empty house. It was as if whoever knocked frightened himself by the knocking, and tried to beat away his fear with still louder blows. But to the woman who tried to pretend that the house was really empty it was more terrible still. It seemed to take on the sound of a summons to the soul itself to issue forth. The noise of it flooded the place, echoed its way upstairs and into far rooms, so that strange voices answered it sharply from wood and stone. The heavy, storm-tried walls were suddenly no more than paper, so that the knocking became folly when a push would have forced them in. It seemed to Sarah that they must hear it from end to end of the marsh, across at the “Ship,” and out to the hidden edge of sea. She wondered why Simon did not come running, and the dog break into hoarse barks, for even in the far shippon they must surely hear. But there was only that great knocking in all the world, cheerful, impatient, or resigned by turn. It paused at moments, but only as the passing-bell pauses, Sarah thought, waiting to speak its single word afresh. + 

The noise had swept away in a moment both the false serenity of hate and the almost falser calm of that dwelling memory of love. From the respite, indeed, the live passion seemed to have sunk, as it were, on its haunches for a fiercer leap. She could not think clearly or control her limbs under the sudden impact of its spring. It seemed to fling itself on her as she had seen the tides in the winter crash against the wall. She, too, went under as if the water had beaten her down, and the noise at the door became the blows of the waves and the roar of the dragged beach. + 

She had that impulse to laughter which comes with long-expected woe, as if the gods were guilty of bathos when they stooped at last to strike. Scorn is the first sensation of those who seem to have watched the springs of action long before the hour. Sudden sorrows, quick blows have a majesty of their own, as if the gifts of the gods made for honour in good or ill. But long-deferred trouble, like suspended joy, has a meaner quality in fulfilment, and a subtle humiliation in its ache. That when the gods come they come quickly is true for both libations from the emptied cup. Royal sorrows, like royal joys, fall swift as thunderbolts from heaven. + 

She had always known in her heart that there was no fighting Blindbeck luck, that even the dregs of it were more potent than the best of the Sandholes brand. It could hardly fail to reach even across the sea, so that one of the failures would be less of a failure than the other in the end. The trouble of being the underdog too long is that even the dog himself begins at last to think it his rightful place. For all her dreaming and lying on Geordie’s behalf, she would have found it hard to believe in his ultimate success. Not for nothing had Eliza carefully tended her Method all this while, and watered it weekly with the Simons’ tears. + 

At first she told herself that she would put out the light, and let the knocker knock until he was tired. Perhaps he would open the door and step inside, but the darkness would surely thrust him out again. He might even go to the foot of the stairs and call, until the silence itself put a hand upon his throat. But already the strain was more than she could bear, and each blow as it came was a blow on her own heart. She tried to move, but was afraid of the sound of her own feet, and it was only under the cover of fresh knocking that she made the effort at last. Now she was facing the door which she could not see, though she knew its panels like the palm of her hand. Behind it, she felt the knocking ring on her brain, but now she had come within range of a more persistent power than that. Plainly, through the wooden barrier that was raised between them, she felt the presence of the man who stood without. + 

There is always an effort, a faint dread, about the opening of a door, as if the one who entered were admitted to more than a room. From each personality that enters even for a moment into one’s life something is always involuntarily received. The opening is only a symbol of the more subtle admission of the two, which leaves an intruder behind when the actual bodily presence has passed away. And of all openings there is none that includes such realisation and such risk as that which lets in the night and a stranger’s face. + 

And then suddenly the knocking ceased, as if the knocker was now as aware of her presence as she of his. They were like enemies, crouched on either side of a barricade; or like lovers, so near and yet so far, in the last, long second before the bars are down. Each waited for a breath, a touch, a turn of the hand that would bring the flash of the final blow or the thrill of the first kiss. + 

Their consciousness of each other was so strong that she knew at once when he lifted his arm again, just as he knew when she stirred in fear of the fresh attack. The latch gave its loose, metallic clink as she raised it and let it drop, and then the door began to open with the almost human grudging of old doors. The stranger put out a hand to help it on its way, and with a harsh shriek that sounded like protest it dragged across the flags. + 

At once the bulk of his big form was in the open square, substantial even in the dissolving light. There was a last pause as the shock of the actual meeting smote upon their minds, and then his voice, cheerful and loud as the knocking, flooded the house. + 

“Everybody dead here?” he demanded gaily, bending forward to peer at the figure set like a statue just inside. The tone of his voice, deep and kindly, had yet a touch of nervousness at its back. The strain of the waiting had told upon him as well as on her. “Say, you are real, ain’t you?” he enquired sharply, and then laughed. “Mercy! I sure thought everybody must be dead!” + 

Sarah had another shock at the sound of his voice, topped by the accent from over the pond as the deep note of flood is topped by the thinner note of the surf. She had listened instinctively for the Jim-an’-Geordie voice, but this was the voice of neither Geordie nor Jim. It was as strange to her who knew nothing of other peoples’ speech as if it had been a voice from another star. She shrank away from him, saying⁠—“I thought it was Jim.” And then, almost violently, “You’re never Jim!” + 

The man laughed a second time, but more naturally, as if reassured the moment he heard her speak. “I sure am!” he answered her joyfully. “Why shouldn’t I be? Leastways, I’m all of Jim Thornthet that’s managed to swim across!” The smile stayed on his lips as he stared, but died when she did not respond. “May I come in a spell?” he enquired anxiously. “I’ve only struck England today, and I’ve a bag of news.” + 

But again she blocked the entrance as she had blocked it for May. It was the way into herself as well as into the house that these people sought, and she yielded to neither of them by an inch. “You can get out, if you’re Jim,” she said caustically, “and as smart as you like! Blindbeck’s your spot. We want nowt wi’ you here.” + 

The sharp words did not depress him, however. They were too reminiscent of old time. + 

“That’s a real mean Howdy!” he answered her humorously, advancing a foot. “ ’Tisn’t like Westmorland folk to keep folk tugging at the latch.⁠ ⁠… Shucks for Blindbeck!” he added laughingly, as she began the word again. “Sandholes is my little old home⁠—always was, and always will be.” He advanced further, a merry, teasing note in his big voice. “You can’t keep me out, old woman! You never could. I’m coming right in, old woman!⁠ ⁠… I’m sure coming.⁠ ⁠… I’m right in!” + 

It was true, too. He was in the passage now, making his way by a force of desire stronger than May’s entreating love. Something else helped him as well, perhaps⁠—some old extorted freedom of house and board. He put out his hand to Sarah as he turned to the light, but she shrank away from him against the wall. + 

“I won’t have you in t’house!” she cried angrily to his dim form. “Be off with you now, and look sharp about it!” + 

But again he seemed to be pleasantly cheered by her wrath, as if with a happy echo from the past. + 

“I’ll shin off right quick when I’ve had a word,” he coaxed. “Come on in, old woman, and look at me where there’s a bit more sun!” The flickering light seemed to beckon him on, for he began to move towards its dim dwelling. “I’ve news of Geordie for you,” he called back to her, as she did not stir. “You’ll sure be wanting to hear that!” + 

She heard him pass into the kitchen, his firm, confident tread raising a ring from every flag, and wondered, as with the knocking, why it did not carry all over the marsh. But still she stayed behind, fighting with herself and with the longing to hear his news. It could be of nothing but failure, she reminded herself, and her heart answered that that would be better than nothing at all. She heard him walking about the kitchen, as if he walked from this memory to that, peering into old cupboards and laying a hand upon old chairs. Presently, however, there came a silence as if he had seen enough, and, in a sudden panic lest he should be gone, she hurried after him into the room. + 

At once, as she went in, she traced the shape of him on the hearth, though she could not see his huge shadow that climbed the ceiling and swamped the wall. Clearly, too, she could feel his dominant personality all about, too heady a wine for the frail, cob webbed bottle of the place. Paused on the hearth, he was still looking around him with a wistful, humorous smile. He was thinking, as all think who return, how strong and yet how slender was the chain, how futile and yet how tenacious were the humble things which had held him through the years! He was thinking, too, how amazingly tiny everything had grown⁠—the house, the kitchen, and the old woman within the door. Even the stretch of sand, which he could vaguely see, seemed narrow to him who had known much greater wastes. + 

He turned his smiling eyes suddenly to Sarah’s face. + 

“How’s the old man, by the way? Still keeping uppermost of the weeds?” + 

“He’s nobbut middlin’, that’s all,” she forced herself to reply. + 

“Is he anywhere about?” + 

“Like enough⁠ ⁠… but you needn’t wait.” + 

“I’d like a chin with him, all the same!” He hugged himself as he stood on the hearth, and his huge shadow hugged itself on the wall. The same mischievous sound crept back into his voice. “I’m mighty glad to see you again, old woman, I am that! Perhaps you’ll feel like slinging me a smile or two after a bit.” + 

“Eliza’ll smile, I’ll warrant, if you’ve nobbut a pound or two in your poke.” + 

“I have that⁠—sure!” He slapped his coat as he spoke, laughing a great laugh which shook her as cruelly as his knock. “It’s up to me to keep my pockets stitched, nowadays,” he finished, in a contented tone. + 

“I’m main glad to hear it,” she said sardonically, and he nodded gaily. + 

“That’s real nice of you, old woman! You can keep right on. You’d a terrible down on me in the old days, hadn’t you now?” + 

“I’ve no use for you, Jim Thornthwaite, and never had. You know that as well as me.” + 

“That’s so!” He laughed again. “But I was always mighty fond of you.” He made a movement as if to cross to her side, but she backed instantly, as if she guessed. “Of course, you’d a deal rather it had been Geordie,” he said. “I know that. But he was never much of a sparkle in the family tarara, and that’s honest. I left him serving in a store⁠—poor lad Geordie⁠—and hankering like honey after the old spot!” + 

“And you left him behind,” Sarah flung at him⁠—“you wi’ brass?” + 

“He wouldn’t take a red cent. I looked him up as soon as I struck it rich, but he was always set on hoeing his own row. He’d have taken it from his own folks, but he wouldn’t from me. Guess it was Blindbeck hate in him coming out at last! But if ever he’d had the dollars, he’d have been home before you could hear him shout.” + 

“He’s best where he is,” Sarah said coldly, repenting her charge. Eliza’s son should not see that she grudged or cared. “Them as makes beds can likely lie on the straw.” + 

“Well, Blindbeck luck still holds, anyway!” Jim smiled. “See here!” He put his hand in the greatcoat that seemed to hide from her that he was a creature of flesh and blood, and instantly she heard the rustle of notes. He opened the big pocketbook under the light, running his hand over the clean slips with joyous pride. “Don’t that talk?” he said cheerfully. “Doesn’t it sure talk?” and in spite of her resolve she shrank from the crisp, unaccustomed sound. + 

“Good enough, eh?” he demanded warmly⁠—“and there’s plenty more behind! That’s only to pass the time o’ day with, so to speak. Guess it’ll do for a fairing for my old mother, that’s about all.” He snapped the elastic again and flung the book on the table, so that it slid across within Sarah’s reach. Lifting his eyes he met her gaze fixed blindly upon his face, and his brow contracted as he puzzled over that hard, unrecognising stare. + 

“Can’t we sit down for a spell?” he asked her coaxingly, turning back to the hearth. “I feel real unwanted, standing on my hind legs.” + 

“Eliza’ll be waiting on you,” Sarah said, through a stiff throat. + 

“She’s waited twenty years.” He laid a hand on a chair, and pulled it nearer to the warmth. It protested violently when it felt his weight, but he settled himself snugly, and did not care. The fire, as if heartened at sight of him on the hearth, changed its cold yellow for a crimson glow. + 

“It’s good to be home,” he said happily⁠—“good as a Sunday-school, treat⁠—sure!” He pulled his pipe from his pocket, and began to fill it meditatively, with quiet hands.⁠ ⁠… “Now, if it had been Geordie that had struck it rich, it would have been a real hum for you, wouldn’t it, old woman? Guess I feel real mean, for your sake, that it’s only me. Guess I could almost wish it was Geordie out and out!” + 

He leaned forward with the firelight on his face, looking at her with the same smile that was like a hand that he reached out. + 

“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 bump,’ 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 pass 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 brass 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 brass. 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 lass⁠—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 space. “Saturday,” 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 Saturday, ain’t it?” + 

“I reckon it is.” + 

“Saturday’s my day for luck,” she heard him saying, as the match died down. “I’ve got a cinch on Saturdays, 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, womanlike, 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 pocketbook within reach of her hand. “You’d best take yon truck along wi’ you an’ all.” + 

Even in his disappointment he was still able to smile. “It don’t need a safe between it and a Thornthet, I guess!” was all he said. In that moment, indeed, the money was nothing and less than nothing to them both. Sarah was honest to the core, and never remembered once that dead men tell no tales and that the sea does not betray.⁠ ⁠… The thing that had conquered her soul was at least also above that. + 

“Ten, wa’n’t it?” he asked, drifting reluctantly out again. His voice came from further away, like the gull’s voice from the sky. “So long! Cheero! I’ll be back again with the tide.⁠ ⁠…” + 

IV + 

She heard rather than felt the silence re-enfold the house, like the swish of a curtain softly tumbled down. She was vividly on the alert for every change in the brooding quiet, but she was not afraid of the inevitable sound that must shortly break it again. To herself she seemed to be shut into the very heart of things, where everyone knows his secret hiding-place to be. Nothing could hurt her there, because it was shut away from pain. Neither remorse nor fear could touch her in that calm. + 

Yet all the time her mind had followed the man who had gone out, hearing the thud of his feet on the sandy ground, and seeing the bulk of him huge on the seawall. The sound of his feet would be sharper on the beach, but when he got to the sand it would be muffled as if with cloths. When he came to the channel he would stand and hail, and the light from the “Ship” would lie on the water like a road.⁠ ⁠… + 

But never tonight or in all time would he get as far as the bank. Suddenly, as he walked, he would hear a whisper out of the west. It would mean nothing to him at first, nor the wind feeling along his cheek. He would only say to himself that the trees were astir on the far point. Then he would hear a noise like a coming shower, and lift up his face to meet the first of the rain. But the sound that came after would come running along the sand, until every rib was vibrating its message to his feet. When he knew what it was, he would stand perfectly still, and then he would spring in the air and start to run. But, run as he might, he would never reach the shore, or stand on the gold road that would take him over to May. The white tide-horses were swifter far than he; their unshod hoofs would outrun his heavy boots. The sweeping advance-water would suddenly hem him in, swirling before his feet and shooting behind his back. He would run this way and that in the dark, but it would be no use. He would run and run, but it would never be any use.⁠ ⁠… + 

From complete detachment she passed gradually to a comforting sense of quittance and ease. It was as if a burden that she had carried all her life had been cut away, so that she could lift up her head and look in front of her and breathe free. The sickening jealousy was gone, the gnawing pain at her heart, the fierce up-swelling of decimating rage, the long, narrowed-down brooding of helpless hate. Never again would she be able to see herself as the poor relation fawning at Eliza’s skirts. The thing had been done at last which paid Eliza in full. + 

She had, as she came back within range of feeling again, one last, great moment of exultant pride. She seemed to herself actually to grow in size, to tower in the low room as the shadow of the home-comer had towered over ceiling and wall. Into the hands of this oppressed and poverty-stricken woman there had suddenly been given the heady power of life and death, and the stimulant of it was like wine in her thin blood, making her heart steady as a firm-blown forge. She felt strong enough in that moment to send every child of Eliza’s out to its death in the maw of the Night Wave. She felt an epic figure poised on the edge of the world, heroic, tremendous, above all laws. Indeed, she seemed, as it were, to be the very Finger of God itself.⁠ ⁠… + 

And then faintly the exultation sank; dimmed, rather, as on a summer day the sharpness goes out of the high lights on lawn and wall. The sun is not gone, but the farthest and finest quality of it is suddenly withdrawn. In some such way a blurring of vivid certainties came upon her brain. A breath of wind was blown sharply through the open window, and with a touch of surprise she found that she was cold. The fire, so lately encouraged by the visitor’s presence, had died sulkily into grey clinkers tinged with red that had no more warmth to it than a splash of paint. The candle, on the other hand, had sprung into a tall flame from a high wick. It was as if it was making a last effort to illumine the world for the woman over whose mind was creeping that vague and blurring mist. + 

With the slackening of the mental tension her physical self slackened, too. She began to rock to and fro, muttering softly as she swayed. + 

“Blind thoughts in a blind body’s brain!” she was saying to herself.⁠ ⁠… “Ay, it’s about time. A blind night and a blind tide.⁠ ⁠… Ay, it’s about time.⁠ ⁠…” + 

And yet through the blind night and with her blind sight she still saw the figure swinging over the sands, broad, confident, strong, as were all at Blindbeck⁠—successful and rich. Always her mind kept close at its back, seeing the solid print of it on the air, feeling the muscular firmness of its tread, and hearing the little whistled tune that kept escaping between its teeth.⁠ ⁠… + 

Suddenly she raised her voice, as if addressing somebody a long way off. + 

“What d’you want wi’ a bed as’ll never sleep in bed again? Nay, my lad, you’ll have nowt but churchyard mould!⁠ ⁠… Yon’s if they find him, when the tide comes in. There’ll be a bonny fairing for Eliza when the tide comes in!” + 

She stopped abruptly as Simon clattered into the room, holding herself motionless by a final effort of will. He glanced uneasily at the still figure, the unspread table and the dead fire, but he did not speak. He was still conscious of guilt and ready to make amends, even to the extent of going supperless to bed. Outside the door, he had felt curiously certain that Sarah was not alone, and even now he looked into corners for figures that were not there. Coming in from the dark on the marsh, his instinct had told him instantly that the atmosphere had changed, but the knowledge faded once he was well inside. He wondered whether anything had been done with the milk, but did not like to ask, and, setting the still-lighted lantern on the floor, stooped to unloose his boots. + 

“All yon talk about Geordie’s fair give me the jumps!” he remarked suddenly, with an embarrassed laugh. “I could ha’ sworn I heard his voice as I was snecking shuppon door!” + 

She did not answer, and with an inward curse at his own foolishness he bent lower over his boots. “Another o’ yon big tides,” he went on hurriedly, when the thongs were loosed. “It’s sharp on t’road now. I could hear it as I come in.” + 

Even as he spoke the room was suddenly filled with the sound of the sea. Before the majesty of the coming presence the whole house seemed to cringe and cower. Sarah felt the room swing round with her, and caught at the table, gripping the edge of it until her very fingers seemed of wood. + 

“There it be!” Simon said, raising himself. “It’s big, as I said.” He clanked across to the window as he spoke, the laces slapping and trailing on the flags, and again, as he put his face to the square, the wind that blows before the tide stirred mightily through the room. Far-off, but coming fast, they could hear the messenger from the deep, sweeping its garment over the head of the crouched waste, as it sped to deliver its challenge at the locked gate of the seawall. + 

Sarah had still control over her actual body, but no more. With Simon’s entrance she had realised herself again, and knew that she was weak and old, with a mind that had got beyond her, and cried and ran to and fro as Jim would run when he heard the Wave. Always she seemed to herself to be close at his back, but now she ran to warn him and stumbled as she ran. She flung out her arms towards him in an aching passion to hold him close, and in that moment felt the truth drop, stilly, into her whirling brain. He turned his face towards her swiftly as they went, and for all its likeness it was not Jim’s face. She saw him swept and helpless in the swirl of the tide, and in the dark and the tumult knew that the precious body was not Jim’s. She saw him borne in the stillness of morning to the haunted Tithe-Barn where all the drowned were laid, and by the light of the truth that there is between living and dead knew she had always known it was not Jim.⁠ ⁠… + 

“I hope May’s gitten back,” Simon was saying anxiously, as he peered out. “I hope she’s landed back.⁠ ⁠…” Presently he leaned further, and gave a sigh of relief. “Ay⁠—there goes Fleming’s lamp!” + 

Instantly, as the light went out, there came from the sands a whistle and then a cry. Simon spun round, saying, “What’s yon?” with a frightened look, and when the call came again he snatched the lantern from the floor. The third call came suddenly faint, as if its author were running towards the tide, and with a harsh cry a gull swept white and huge beyond the pane. Simon fell back at the sight of it, crying aloud, and throwing his arm before his eyes. + 

But at the same moment Sarah burst her bonds. “Geordie, Geordie!” she screamed, and ran frenziedly to the door. “Nay, it’s over now,” she finished, falling back against the wall. “Gang out and seek our fairing, master⁠—mine and thine!” + 