The Splendid Fairing · Part II · Chapter 2 3 (3/3)

“Nay, now, Sam, never fret yourself!” he jeered. “You and your lad’ll get on right enough, I’ll be bound, what wi’ your heaf-snatching and your sheep-grabbing and the rest o’ your bonny ways! What, man, one o’ your breed’d be fair lost on a marsh farm, wi’ nowt to lay hands on barrin’ other folks’ turmuts, and never a lile chance of an overlap!”

Battersby’s reputation was well known, and an irrepressible laugh greeted Simon’s speech, but was instantly cut short by the terrible spectacle of the victim’s face. Only the smug cousin went on laughing, because he was ignorant as well as smug, and did not know what a heaf meant, let alone how it was possible to add to it by Sam’s skilful if unlawful ways. Battersby jumped to his feet and thumped the table, so that the blue and gold china danced like dervishes from end to end. Mrs. Addison’s tea made a waterfall down her second-best bodice, and Sarah’s heart, not being prepared for the thump, leaped violently into her mouth.

“I’ll not be insulted in your spot nor nobody else’s,” he stormed at Will; “nay, and I’ll not take telling from yon wastrel you call brother, neither! All on us know what a bonny mess o’ things he’s made at Sandholes. All on us know it’ll be right fain to see his back.⁠ ⁠… As for you, you gomeless half-thick,” he added, swinging round so suddenly on the smug cousin that he was left gaping, “you can just shut yon calf’s head o’ yours and mighty sharp or I’ll shut it for you! Them as knows nowt’d do best to say nowt, and look as lile like gawping jackasses as Nature’ll let ’em!”⁠ ⁠… He sent a final glare round the stifled table, and let Eliza have the sting in his tail. “I’d been looking to be real friendly wi’ Blindbeck,” he finished nastily, “and my lad an’ all, but I don’t know as we’ll either on us be fain for it after this. Nay, I wain’t set down agen, missis, and that’s flat, so you needn’t ax me! I’m off home and glad to be going, and no thanks to none o’ you for nowt!”

He glanced at his plate to make certain there was nothing left, snatched at his cup and hastily swallowed the dregs; then, thrusting his chair backward so violently that it fell to the floor, he clapped his hat on his head and marched rudely out. Eliza, catching a glance from a tearful daughter, got to her feet, too. They swam from the room in a torrent of loud apologies and bitter, snarled replies.

Will leaned back in his chair with a fretted expression on his gentle face. The cousin, slowly turning from red to mottled mauve, observed to Mary Phyllis that the old man’s language was “really remarkably like my chief’s!” Some of the younger end started to giggle afresh, but Sarah was still trembling from the unexpected shock, and Simon felt gloomy again after his public effort. He could see that he had upset Will, and that was the last thing he wanted to do, today. Will did not like Battersby, but he liked peace, and there were other reasons for friendly relations at present. Will’s youngest daughter had a direct interest in Battersby’s lad and his hopes of a farm, and now the father had shaken the Blindbeck dust from his proud feet. She looked across at the cause of the trouble with tear-filled, indignant eyes.

“Seems to me things is always wrong when you come to Blindbeck, Uncle Simon!” she exclaimed hotly. “Nobody wants your old farm, I’m sure! I wouldn’t have it at a gift! But you might have spoken him fair about it, all the same. I never see such folks as you and Aunt Sarah for setting other folk by the ears!”

Will said “Whisht, lass, whisht!” in as cross a tone as he ever used to his girls, and Simon glowered at her sulkily, but he did not speak. She was a fair, pretty thing, with Geordie-an’-Jim’s eyes, and he did not wish to injure her happiness in any way. It was true enough, as she said, that there was generally something in the shape of a row as soon as he and Sarah set foot in the house, but he could not tell for the life of him how it came about. It could not be altogether their fault, he thought resentfully, yet with a sort of despair. Today, for instance, he had every reason for keeping the peace, and yet that fool of a Battersby must come jumping down his throat! Nobody could be expected to stand such manners and such nasty greed⁠—grabbing a man’s homestead before his notice was well in! There was nothing surprising, of course, in the fact that the women had already come to blows. He had expected it from the start, and, with the resignation of custom, thought it as well over soon as late. They had had one scrap, as it was, from what Sarah had said, and the dregs of that pot of passion would still be hot enough to stir.

“It’s a shame, that’s what it is!” the girl was saying, over and over again. Tears dropped from the Geordie-an’-Jim eyes, and Simon felt furious with everybody, but particularly with himself.

“You needn’t bother yourself,” he growled across at last, making a rough attempt to put the trouble right. “Young Battersby’s over much sense to go taking a spot like ourn, and as for his dad, he’ll be back afore you can speak. ’Tisn’t Sam Battersby, I’ll be bound, if he isn’t as pleased as punch to be running in double harness wi’ Blindbeck and its brass!”

“Ay, like other folk!” Eliza dropped on him from the clouds, reappearing panting from her chase. “Like other folk a deal nearer home, Simon Thornthet, as you don’t need telling! Battersby wanted nowt wi’ the farm⁠—he tellt me so outside. ’Tisn’t good enough for the likes of him, nor for our Emily Marion, neither! He was that stamping mad he was for breaking it all off, but I got him promised to look in again next week. I’d a deal o’ work wi’ him, all the same,” she added, flushing angrily at her brother-in-law’s ironic smile, “and no thanks to you, neither, if I come out top, after all! Anyway, I’ll thank you to speak folk civilly at my table, if you can, whatever-like hired man’s ways you keep for your own!”

She would have hectored him longer if Will had not got to his feet and taken himself and his brother out of the room, so instead she went back to her seat and drank a large cup of tea in angry gulps. Between drinks, however, she managed to say to the wife the things she had wanted to say to the man, though Sarah was silent and paid little or no heed. She wished she could have gone outside with the men, and helped to decide what her future was to be. But it was not for her to advise, who would soon be no better than a helpless log. It was her part to wait patiently until Simon fetched her away.

But it was not easy to wait at all in that atmosphere of critical dislike. The successive passages of arms had had their natural effect, and the party which had been so merry at the start was now in a state of boredom and constraint. The thoughts of most of those present were unfriendly towards the folk of the marsh, and Sarah could feel the thoughts winding about her in the air. Emily Marion was right, so they were saying in their minds; trouble always followed the Thornthwaites the moment they appeared. Storms arose out of nowhere and destroyed some festive occasion with a rush. Even to look at them, dowdy and disapproving, was to take the heart out of any happy day. It was certainly hard on the poor Will Thornthwaites that the tiresome Simons should dare to exist.

Sarah, bringing her mind back from the absent brothers with an effort, found the Method working again at top speed. The tea had soothed Eliza’s nerves and stimulated her brain. She was now at her very best for behaving her very worst.

“And so Mr. Addison’s preaching next week, is he?” she reverted suddenly, making even that supreme egotist blink and start. Her Voice, furred and soft, reminded Sarah of a paw reaching out for someone to scratch. “Eh, now, but I should be in a rare twitter if it was Will as was setting up to preach! But there, we’re none of us much of a hand at talking at our spot, and Will’s summat better to do than just wagging a loose tongue. I’ll see the lads come along, though, as it’s you, Mrs. Addison, and an old friend, unless there’s summat useful they’re happen wanted for at home. Eh, Sarah, but wouldn’t they talks to young men ha’ done a sight o’ good to Geordie-an’-Jim? It’s a sad pity you didn’t start preaching before they went, Mr. Addison⁠—it is that! Like enough, if you had, they’d be at Sandholes yet.”

The preacher’s brow had been thunderous during the early part of this speech, but now he looked suddenly coy. Sally, dropping her glance to her aunt’s lap, saw her fingers clench and unclench on a fold of her own black gown.

“Any news of the prodigals?” Elliman Wilkinson suddenly enquired. He looked at Eliza as he spoke, and smiled as at a well-known joke. “I’m always in hopes to find one of them eating the fatted calf.”

“Nay, you must ask Sarah, not me!” Eliza answered, with an affected laugh. She despised Elliman in her heart, but she was grateful for the cue. “Sarah knows what they’re at, if there’s anybody does at all. Like enough they’ll turn up one o’ these days, but I don’t know as we’ll run to calves. They’ll be terble rough in their ways, I doubt, after all this time. Out at elbows an’ all, as like as not, and wi’ happen a toe or two keeking through their boots!”

There was a ripple of laughter at this show of wit, and then Elliman, urged by a nudge and a whisper from Mary Phyllis, repeated the question in the proper quarter. He raised his voice when he spoke to Sarah, as if she were deaf as well as blind, and when she paused a moment before replying, he apostrophised her again. The whole table had pricked its ears and was listening by the time the answer came.

Sarah felt the giggles and the impertinent voice striking like arrows through the misty ring in which she sat. Sharpest of all was Eliza’s laugh, introducing the question and afterwards punctuating it when it was put. She was achingly conscious of the antipathetic audience hanging on her lips. They were baiting her, and she knew it, and her heart swelled with helpless rage. A passionate longing seized her to be lord of them all for once⁠—just for once to fling back an answer that would slay their smiles, put respect into their mocking voices and change their sneers into awed surprise. If only for once the Dream and the glory might be true⁠—the trap and the new clothes and Geordie and the green front door! But nothing could be further from what they expected, as she knew too well. They were waiting merely to hear her say what she had often said before⁠—for news that there was no news or news that was worse than none. She had faced more than one trial that day, and had come out of them with her self-respect intact, but this unexpected humiliation was more than she could bear. She was telling herself in the pause that she would not answer at all, when something that she took for the total revolt of pride spoke to the mockers through her lips.

“Ay, but there’s rare good news!” she heard herself saying in a cheerful tone, and instantly felt her courage spring up and her heart lighten as the lie took shape. “I’d been saving it up, Eliza, for when we were by ourselves, but there’s no sense, I reckon, in not saying it straight out. Geordie’s on his way home to England at this very minute, and he says he’s a rare good lining to his jacket an’ all!”

The air changed about her at once as she had always dreamed it would, and she heard the gasp of surprise pass from one to another like a quick-thrown ball. Eliza started so violently that she upset her cup and let it lie. She stared malevolently at the other’s face, her own set suddenly into heavy lines.

“Nay, but that’s news and no mistake!” she exclaimed, striving after her former tone, but without success. The note in her voice was clear to her blind hearer, sending triumphant shivers through her nerves.⁠ ⁠… “Tell us again, will you, Sarah?” she added sharply. “I doubt I heard you wrong.”

“I’ll tell you and welcome till the cows come home!” Sarah said, with a sudden sprightliness that made the Wilkinson cousin open his eyes. It was almost as if another person had suddenly taken possession of Sarah’s place. There was a vitality about her that seemed to change her in every feature, an easy dignity that transformed the shabbiest detail of her dress. Her voice, especially, had changed⁠—that grudging, dully defiant voice. This was the warm, human voice of one who rejoiced in secret knowledge, and possessed her soul in perfect security and content.

“He’s coming, I tell you⁠—our Geordie’s coming back!” The wonderful words seemed to fill her with strong courage every time she spoke. “I can’t rightly tell you when it’ll be, but he said we could look for him any minute now. Likely we’ll find him waiting at Sandholes when we’ve gitten home. He’s done well an’ all, from what he says.⁠ ⁠… I’ll be bound he’s a rich man. He talks o’ buying Sandholes, happen⁠—or happen a bigger spot. I make no doubt he’s as much brass as’d buy Blindbeck out an’ out!”

She fell silent again after this comprehensive statement, merely returning brief ayes and noes to the questions showered upon her from every side. Her air of smiling dignity, however, remained intact, and even her blind eyes, moving from one to another eager face, impressed her audience with a sense of truth. And then above the excited chatter there rose Eliza’s voice, with the mother-note sounding faintly through the jealous greed.

“Yon’s all very fine and large, Sarah, but what about my Jim? Jim’s made his pile an’ all, I reckon, if Geordie’s struck it rich. He’s as smart as Geordie, is our Jim, any day o’ the week! Hark ye, Sarah! What about my Jim?”

Quite suddenly Sarah began to tremble, exactly as if the other had struck her a sharp blow. She shrank instantly in her chair, losing at once her dignity and ease. The fine wine of vitality ran out of her as out of a crushed grape, leaving only an empty skin for any malignant foot to stamp into the earth. She tried to speak, but could find no voice brave enough to meet the fierce rain of Eliza’s words. A mist other than that of blindness came over her eyes, and with a lost movement she put out a groping, shaking hand. Sally, in a sudden access of pity, gathered it in her own.

She slid her arm round her aunt, and drew her, tottering and trembling, to her feet.

“It’s overmuch for her, that’s what it is,” she said kindly, but taking care to avoid her mother’s angry glance. “It’s knocked her over, coming that sudden, and no wonder, either. Come along, Aunt Sarah, and sit down for a few minutes in the parlour. You’ll be as right as a bobbin after you’ve had a rest.”

She led her to the door, a lithe, upright figure supporting trembling age, and Elliman’s eyes followed her, so that for once he was heedless of Mary Phyllis when she spoke. Most of the company, indeed, had fallen into a waiting silence, as if they knew that the act was not yet finished, and that the cue for the curtain still remained to be said. And the instinct that held them breathless was perfectly sound, for in the square of the door Sarah halted herself and turned. Her worn hands gripped her gown on either side, and if May had been there to see her, she would again have had her impression of shrouded flame. She paused for a moment just to be sure of her breath, and then her voice went straight with her blind glance to the point where Eliza sat.

“Jim’s dead, I reckon!” she said, clearly and cruelly⁠ ⁠… “ay, I doubt he’s dead. Geordie’d never be coming without him if he was over sod. You’d best make up your mind, Eliza, as he’s dead and gone!”

It was the voice of an oracle marking an open grave, of Cassandra, crying her knowledge in Troy streets. It held them all spellbound until she had gone out. Even Eliza was silent for once on her red plush chair.⁠ ⁠…