The Splendid Fairing · Part II · Chapter 2 6 (1/3)

VI

That which had been the terrible Eliza sat still for a long moment after Sarah had gone out. There was silence about the table until Elliman Wilkinson took upon himself to speak.

“But Jim’s never your son, Cousin Eliza?” he exclaimed, puzzled, rushing in where not only angels would have feared to tread, but where the opposite host also would have taken care to keep their distance. “It’s very stupid of me, of course, but I’ve always made sure that Geordie-an’-Jim were twins.”

Eliza turned baleful eyes upon the eager, inquisitive face. Her mind, concentrated in sullen fury upon the enemy recently departed with banners, found a difficulty in focusing itself upon this insignificant shape. When it succeeded, however, she ground him into dust.

“Ay, well, next time you feel sure of anything, you can make certain you’re dead wrong!” she told him cruelly, surveying his bland countenance with cold contempt. “Jim’s my eldest, if you want to know, and as much the better o’ Geordie as Blindbeck’s the better o’ yon mudhole down on the marsh! He was always the smarter lad o’ the two⁠—’tisn’t likely he’d ha’ been left.⁠ ⁠… I’ll lay what you like it’s Jim as is really coming, after all!”

“But in that case you would surely have heard from him yourself?” Elliman was still disporting himself with the brazen folly of innocence upon the forbidden ground. “He’d have written to tell his mother, surely⁠—not his aunt?”

A distinct thrill of apprehension ran through the company at this tactful speech. Mary Phyllis’s nudge on this occasion was one of sharp reproof. The clouds thickened on Eliza’s brow.

“Nay, then, he just wouldn’t, Mr. Clever-Lad-Know-All, so that’s that! I’m his mother right enough, as nobody but a fool would ha’ needed telling, but he wouldn’t ha’ written me, all the same. Me and Jim got across a while back, and he’s taken sulks with me ever since. He’d be like enough to write to Sarah, by way of giving me back a bit o’ my own. She always cockered him fearful, did Sarah, and set him agen me whenever she could. And if there’s brass about, as she says, she’ll keep it warm for him, never fear! She’ll take right good care it never gets past her to Blindbeck or any of his own!”

“Jim would ha’ been right enough but for Geordie all along.” Mrs. Addison shook a loose and agile bonnet with an impressive air. “He was a right-down nuisance, was Geordie Thornthet⁠—a bad lad as well as a reg’lar limb! Such tricks as he was up to, I’m sure⁠—turmut-lanterns and the like, booin’ at folks’ winders after dark, and hiding behind hedges when folk was courtin’ about t’lanes! Stephen and me wasn’t wed then, you’ll think on, and I mind a terble fright as Geordie give us one summer night. Stephen was terble sweet on me, as you’ll likely know, though he’d choke himself black in the face afore he’d own to it now. Well, yon night as I’m speaking of he had hold o’ my hand, and was looking as near like a dying duck in a thunderstorm as ever I see. ‘Jenny Sophia,’ he was saying, as sweet as a field of clover, ‘I’m that set on you, Jenny Sophia’⁠—when up pops Geordie on t’far side o’ the hedge, girning and making a hullaballoo like a donkey afore rain!”

“You’ve no call to go raking up yon d⁠—d rubbish!” Mr. Addison burst out, crimson to the hair, and quite forgetting the obligations of his Christian mission. He had said the same thing to Eliza’s eldest lass, and much about the same time, and knew that Eliza knew it as well as he. “Folks isn’t right in their heads when they’re courtin’, as everybody knows, and it’s real mean to bring it agen ’em after all these years. As for Geordie Thornthet, there was lile or nowt I could learn him, and that’s sure! T’lasses was always after him like bees at a bottle o’ rum.”

“Nay, now, you mean our Jim!” Jim’s mother corrected him with an air of offence. “Nobody never reckoned nowt o’ Geordie but May Fleming. He couldn’t hold a candle to Jim, any day o’ the week. Folk said they couldn’t tell ’em apart, but I never see a scrap o’ likeness myself.” She glanced defiantly round the table, as if expecting opposition, and then swung round eagerly as Sally reappeared. “Well, my lass, well?” she rapped out⁠—“did she tell you anything more? You’ve taken your time about coming back, I’m sure!”

“Nay, she said nowt fresh,” Sally answered evasively, without meeting her eyes. She advanced to the table and began to gather the china together, ready for clearing away. Her mother pushed back her chair with an angry scrape.

“Well, of all the gert, helpless gabies!” she exploded violently. “I made sure she’d talk when she’d gitten you by herself. Didn’t she say when letter come, or how much brass there was, or owt?⁠ ⁠… Eh, well, it’s never Geordie as made it, that I’ll swear!”

“She said it was Geordie.” Sally went on mechanically with her task, collecting cups and plates from under the noses of the still-stupefied clan. “It’s real nice, anyway, to see somebody happy,” she added suddenly, raising her eyes to look at the smug cousin. Elliman met them unexpectedly and coloured furiously. On a sudden remorseful impulse he shuffled a couple of plates together, and handed them to her with a deprecating air.

“I can’t say she looked very set up about it, anyhow!” Eliza sneered. “What, she was even more glumpy than usual, seemed to me!”

“More like a burying than a homecoming, by a deal!” Mary Phyllis finished for her, with a scornful laugh.

“As for Uncle Simon, he was as cross as a pair of shears!” Emily Marion added in a fretted tone. The Thornthwaites were making things awkward today for the bride-to-be. Simon had nearly queered the engagement at the start, and now the company’s interest was all for a Thornthwaite whom she had never seen.

“Not how I should take good news, certainly!” Elliman said, hoping that no one had noticed his menial act. “I should have something more to say for myself, I hope, than that.”

Eliza’s eyes brightened considerably at this unanimous point of view.

“Nay, you’re right there,” she took them up eagerly, “you’re right enough! ’Tisn’t natural to be so quiet. I’ll tell you what it is,” she added impressively, “it’s one o’ two things, that’s all. It’s either a lie from beginning to end, or else⁠—or else⁠—well, it’s our Jim!” She pushed her chair further still, and got hurriedly to her feet. “Ay, well, whichever it is, I’d best see for myself,” she added quickly. “You’ll not mind me leaving you, Mrs. Addison, just for a little while? I don’t know as we’re doing right to leave Sarah so long alone. She’s getting a bit of an old body now, you know, and she was never that strong in her poor head.”

She departed noisily after this surprisingly sympathetic speech, and Sarah, hearing her heavy step along the passage, chuckled for the last time. Her mind braced itself for the coming contest with a grim excitement that was almost joy. Nothing could have been more unlike her attitude of the morning in the innyard. She lay back in her chair again and closed her eyes, and was rocking peacefully when Eliza opened the door.

Just for the moment the sight of the tranquil figure gave her pause, but neither sleep nor its greater Counterpart could still Eliza for very long. “Feeling more like yourself, are you, Sarah?” she enquired cautiously, peering in, and then repeated the question when she got no answer. Finally, irritated by the other’s immobility which was obviously not sleep, she entered the room heavily, shutting the door with a sharp click. “There’s nowt amiss, from the look of you,” she added loudly, as she advanced.

Sarah exclaimed, “Eh now, whatever’s yon!” at the sound of the harsh voice, and sat up stiffly, winking her blind eyes. She even turned her head and blinked behind, as if she thought the voice had come out of the grandfather’s clock. “Nay, I’ll do now, thank ye,” she answered politely, discovering Eliza’s whereabouts with a show of surprise. “It’ll be about time we were thinking of getting off.”

Eliza, however, had no intention of parting with her just yet. She stopped her hastily when she tried to rise.

“Nay, now, there isn’t that much hurry, is there?” she demanded sharply. “Yon old horse o’ yourn’ll barely have stretched his legs. Your master and mine’d have a deal to say to each other an’ all.” She paused a moment, creaking from foot to foot, and staring irresolutely at the mask-like face. “You talked a deal o’ stuff in t’other room, Sarah,” she broke out at last, “but I reckon you meant nowt by it, after all?”

Sarah wanted to chuckle again, but was forced to deny herself the pleasure. For appearance’ sake she stiffened her back, and bristled a little at Eliza’s tone.

“Ay, but I did!” she retorted briskly, her voice firm. “Whatever else should I mean, I’d like to know?”

The strong hope that had sprung in Eliza’s heart died down again before this brazen show.

“You can’t rightly know what you’re saying, Sarah,” she said coldly, “you can’t, indeed! Geordie coming after all these years⁠—nay, now, yon isn’t true!”

“Ay, but it is, I tell ye⁠—true enough! True as yon Sunday fringe o’ yourn as you bought in Witham!”

“And wi’ brass, you said?” Eliza let the flippant remark pass without notice, and Sarah nodded. “A deal o’ brass?”

“Yon’s what he says.”

“Eh, well, I never did!” The angry wind of her sigh passed over Sarah’s head and rustled the honesty in a vase behind. She repeated “I never did!” and creaked away from the enemy towards the window. Behind her, Geordie’s mother allowed the ghost of a smile to find a fleeting resting-place on her lips.

“And so he’s on his road home, is he⁠—coming right back?” Mrs. Will kept her back turned, thinking hard as she spoke. There was no section of Sarah’s statement but she intended to prove by the inch. “Ay, well, it’s what they mostly do when they’ve made their brass.”

“He’ll be over here, I reckon, afore you can say knife! Taking first boat, he says he is, or the fastest he can find.” She turned her head towards the door through which his voice had come in the dream. “What, I shouldn’t be that surprised if he was to open yon door now!”

There was such conviction in her tone that Eliza, too, was startled into turning her head. There was nothing to see, of course, and she turned back, but her ears still thrilled with the thrill in Sarah’s voice. The cowman, passing, saw her face behind the glass, and said to himself that the missis was out for trouble once again.

She was silent for a while, trying vainly to grapple the situation in the pause. She saw well enough that there was nothing to be gained by dispute if the story were true. She still looked to be top-dog in that or any other case, because Blindbeck pride was founded on solid Blindbeck gold; but there was no denying that the enemy would lie in a totally different position, and would have to be met on totally different ground. If, on the other hand, the great statement was a lie, there would be plenty of time for vengeance when the facts were known. Her malicious soul argued that the real game was to give Sarah plenty of rope, but her evil temper stood in the way of the more subtle method. It got the upper hand of her at last, and she flung round with an angry swing.

“Nay, then, I can’t believe it!” she exclaimed passionately⁠—“I just can’t! It’s a pack o’ lies, that’s what it is, Sarah⁠—a gert string o’ senseless lies!”

This coarse description of her effort hurt Sarah in her artistic pride. She stiffened still further.

“I reckoned you’d take it like that,” she replied in a dignified tone. “ ’Tisn’t decent nor Christian, but it’s terble nat’ral.”

“I don’t see how you could look for folks to take it different!” Eliza cried. “ ’Tisn’t a likely sort o’ story, any way round. Ne’er-do-weels don’t make their fortunes every day o’ the week, and your Geordie was a wastrel, if ever there was one yet. You don’t look like good news, neither, come to that. They’ve just been saying so in t’other room.”

“Good news wants a bit o’ getting used to,” Sarah said quietly, “same as everything else. When you’ve never had no luck for years and years you don’t seem at first as if you could rightly take it in.”

“More particular when you’re making it up out o’ your own head!” Eliza scoffed, but growing more and more unwillingly convinced. “Nay, now, Sarah!” she added impatiently, her hands twitching⁠—“what d’ye think ye’re at? What about all yon talk o’ giving up the farm? No need for such a to-do if Geordie’s coming home!”

For the first time, though only just for a second, Sarah quailed. For the first time she had a glimpse of the maze in which she had set her feet, and longed sharply for her physical sight as if it would help her mental vision. But her brain was still quick with the power of the dream, and it rose easily to the sudden need. “It’s like this, d’ye see,” she announced firmly. “Simon knows nowt about it yet. I didn’t mean telling him till we’d gitten back.”

Eliza had followed the explanation with lowering brows, but now she burst into one of her great laughs.

“Losh, Sarah, woman! but I’d have a better tale than that! What, you’d never ha’ let him give in his notice, and you wi’ your tongue in your cheek all the time!⁠ ⁠… When did you get yon precious letter o’ yours?” she enquired swiftly, switching on to another track.

“Just last minute this morning as we was starting off.” Sarah was thoroughly launched now on her wild career. Each detail as she required it rose triumphantly to her lips. “Simon was back in t’stable wi’ t’horse when postman come, so I put it away in my pocket and settled to say nowt. I thought it was likely axing for money or summat like that, and Simon had more than enough to bother him as it was. I got May Fleming to read it for me at doctor’s,” she finished simply, with a supreme touch. “I’m terble bad wi’ my eyes, Eliza, if you’ll trouble to think on.”

Once again Eliza was forced to belief against her will, and then once again she leaped at the only discrepancy in the tale.

“You could ha’ tellt Simon easy enough on the road out!” she threw at her in a swift taunt. “There’s time for a deal o’ telling at your rate o’ speed!”

But now, to her vexed surprise, it was Sarah who laughed, and with a society smoothness that would have been hard to beat. It was in matters like these that the dream lifted her into another sphere, puzzling her clumsy antagonist by the finer air she seemed to breathe.

“Eh, now, Eliza!” she said good-humouredly, and with something almost like kindliness in her voice, “whatever-like use is it telling a man owt when he’s chock full o’ summat else? Simon was fit to crack himself over some joke as he’d heard in Witham, talking a deal o’ nonsense and laughing fit to shake the trap! Coming from market’s no time any day for telling a man important news, and anyway I’d never ha’ got a word in edgeways if I’d tried.” She paused a moment, and then continued, aspiring to still greater heights. “I’d another reason an’ all for wanting it kept quiet. I knew he’d be sure an’ certain to go shouting it out here.”

“Ay, and why ever not, I’d like to know!” Eliza gasped, when she was able to speak. “Come to that, you were smart enough shoving it down our throats yourself!”

“Ay, but that was because I lost my temper,” Sarah admitted, with a noble simplicity which again struck the other dumb. “If I hadn’t ha’ lost my temper,” she added, “I should ha’ said nowt⁠—nowt!”⁠—a statement so perfectly true in itself that it needed nothing to make it tell. “I never meant you should hear it so sudden-like,” she went on gently, the kindness growing in her voice. “It’s hard lines our Geordie should ha’ done so well for himself, and not your Jim. I never meant to crow over you about it, Eliza⁠—I didn’t, indeed. I never thought o’ such a thing!”

Eliza was making a noise like a motorcar trying to start, but Sarah took up her tale before she could reply.