Sarah stood up suddenly when she said that, trying to focus her eyes on Eliza’s face. She stood very stiff and straight, as if she were all of one piece from feet to crown. A sudden notion came to May that, if she had thrown off the shabby black cloak, a column of fierce flame would have shot up towards the roof. …
“I’ll be saying good day, Eliza,” was all she said, however, and moved, but stopped because the other’s skirts still lay before her feet. Mrs. Will leaned back in her chair, looking up at her, and smiled.
“Nay, now, Sarah, what’s the sense o’ getting mad? I’m real sorry about your eyes, but you’d ha’ done better to tell me right off. As for saying good day and suchlike so mighty grand, you know as well as me we’re looking to see you at Blindbeck this afternoon.” She paused a moment, and then her voice rose on an insolent note. “Ay, and you know well enough what you’re coming for an’ all!”
“Nay, then, I don’t.” Sarah seemed actually to grow in height. She looked down at her quietly. “Nay, I don’t.”
“That’s a lie, if I say it to all Witham!” Eliza cried in furious tones. Battle was really joined now, and her voice, strident and loud, carried into and disturbed even the street. Those near turned about openly to listen, or listened eagerly without turning. The man in the adjoining room got up and came to the door. May stood poised for flight, looking from one to the other of the warriors with dismay.
“You’re leaving Sandholes, aren’t you?” Eliza asked, exactly as if she were addressing somebody over the road—“leaving because you’re broke! You’re coming to Blindbeck to beg of Blindbeck, just as you’ve begged of us before. Simon told Will, if you want to know, and Will told me, and every farmer at market’ll be taking it home by now. …”
There was a murmur of discomfort and disapproval all over the room, and then somebody in a corner whispered something and laughed. May roused herself and pushed her way past Eliza with burning cheeks; but Sarah stood perfectly still, looking down at the blurred presence sneering from her chair.
“Ay, we’re quitting right enough,” she answered her in a passionless voice. “We’re finished, Simon and me, and there’s nowt for it but to give up. But I’ve gitten one thing to be thankful for, when everything’s said and done … I’m that bad wi’ my eyes I can’t rightly see your face. …”
The person who had laughed before laughed again, and faint titters broke out on every side. Sarah, however, did not seem to hear. She lifted a thread-gloved hand and pointed at Eliza’s skirts. “Happen you’ll shift yon gown o’ yours, Eliza Thornthet?” she added, coolly. “I’ve a deal o’ dirt on my shoes as I reckon you won’t want.”
The laughter was unrestrained now, and Eliza flushed angrily as she dragged her skirts reluctantly out of the way. From the corner of a raging eye she observed the elaborate care with which Sarah went by.
“We’ll finish our bit of a crack at Blindbeck!” she called after her with a coarse laugh; but Sarah and May were already on the stairs. The stranger put out his hand to them as they brushed past, but in their anger and concentration they did not notice that he was there. Even if he had spoken to them they would not have heard him, for through the cloud of hate which Eliza had cast about them the voice of the Trump itself would never have found a way. He stood aside, therefore, and let them go, but presently, as if unable to help himself, he followed them into the street. They were soon cheerful again, he noticed, walking at their heels, as the charm which they had for each other reasserted its power. Once, indeed, as they looked in at a window, they even laughed, and he frowned sharply and felt aggrieved. When they laughed again he turned on his heel with an angry movement, and flung away down the nearest street. He could not know that it was only in their memories they ever really laughed or smiled. …
VI
Simon had been right in thinking that the tale of the car would be all over the town by the time he arrived. He came across it, indeed, almost the moment that he got in. The driver of the car had told a farmer or two in the innyard, and the farmer or two had chuckled with glee and gone out to spread it among the rest. Of course, they took good care that it lost nothing in the telling, and, moreover, the driver had given it a good shove-off at the start. He told them that Simon had shaken his fist and wept aloud, and that Sarah had fainted away and couldn’t be brought round. A later account had it that the chase had lasted fast and furious for miles, ending with an accident in Witham streets. Simon encountered the tale in many lengths and shapes, and it was hard to say whether the flippant or sympathetic folk annoyed him most. He always started out by refusing to discuss the matter at all, and then wouldn’t stop talking about it once he had begun.
“Ay, well, ye see, I thought it was a hearse,” he always growled, when forced to admit that part of the tale, at least, was true. “Mebbe I was half asleep, or thinking o’ summat else; or likely I’m just daft, like other folk not so far.” Here he usually threw a glance at the enquiring friend, who gave a loud guffaw and shifted from foot to foot. “Ay, a hearse—yon’s what I thought it was, wi’ nid-noddin’ plumes, and happen a corp in a coffin
