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 There was an out-of-date almanac under the old clock, and an ancient tide-table over the mantelshelf.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.