He forgot to feel annoyed, however, when he found that his story had made him in some sort the hero of the day. He could see folks talking about him and pointing him out as he went along, and men came up smiling and wanting a chat who as a rule had no more for him than a casual nod. Often, indeed, he had only a dreary time, bemoaning his fate with one or two cronies almost as luckless as himself; listening, perhaps, on the edge of an interested group, or wandering into some bar for a sup of ale and a pipe. But today he was as busy as an old wife putting the story to rights, and when he had stopped being angry for having behaved like a fool, he began to feel rather proud of himself for having done something rather fine. He ended, indeed, by laughing as heartily as the rest, and allowed several points to pass which had nothing whatever to do with the truth. He felt more important than he had done for years, and forgot for a while the press of his troubles and the fear about Sarah’s eyes. Will told himself that he hadn’t seen him so cheerful for long, and wondered whether things were really as bad at the farm as his brother had made out.
They made a curious couple as they went about, because in face and figure they were so alike, and yet the stamp of their different circumstances was so plain. They had the same thin face and dreamy eyes, lean figure and fine bones, but whereas one carried his age well and his head high, the other had long since bowed himself to the weight of the years. Will wore a light overcoat of a modern make, brown boots and a fashionable soft hat; but Simon’s ancient suit was of some rough, hard stuff that had never paid any attention to his frame. Will had a white collar and neat tie; but Simon had a faded neckcloth with colourless spots, and he wore dubbined boots that had clogged soles, and a wideawake that had once been black but now was green. Eliza often observed in her kindly way that Simon looked old enough to be Will’s father, but indeed it was in the periods to which they seemed to belong that the difference was most marked. Will had been pushed ahead by prosperity and a striving brood; while Simon had gone steadily down the hill where the years redouble the moment you start to run.
They had encountered the agent early on, and fixed an appointment for twelve o’clock; and afterwards they spent the morning together until noon struck from the Town Hall. Will had grown rather tired of hearing the hearse story by then, and felt slightly relieved when the time came for them to part. “Nay, I’ll not come in,” he demurred, as Simon urged him at the door of the “Rising Sun.” “You’ll manage a deal better by yourself. You needn’t fear, though, but what I’ll see you through. We’ll settle summat or other at Blindbeck this afternoon.”
But at the very moment he turned away he changed his mind again and turned back. “I can’t rightly make out about yon car,” he asked, almost as if against his will. “What, in the name o’ fortune, made you behave like yon?”
Simon muttered gloomily that he didn’t know, and shuffled his feet uncomfortably on the step. Now that the shadow of the coming interview was upon him, he was not so perfectly sure as he had been that the story was a joke. He remembered his terror when the car was at his back, his frantic certainty that there were strange things in the air. He took it amiss, too, both as a personal insult and from superstition, that the Town Hall chimes should be playing “There is no luck about the house” just as he stepped inside.
“It was nobbut a hired car, wasn’t it,” Will went on—“wi’ two chaps in it, they said, as come from Liverpool way?”
“That’s what they’ve tellt me since,” Simon agreed, “though I never see it plain. … Seems as if it might be a warning or summat,” he added, with a shamefaced air.
“Warning o’ what?” Will threw at him with a startled glance. “Nay, now! Whatever for?”
“Death, happen,” Simon said feebly—“nay, it’s never that! I’m wrong in my head, I doubt,” he added, trying to laugh; “but there’s queerish things, all the same. There’s some see coffins at the foot o’ their beds, and you’ll think on when last Squire’s missis died sudden-like yon hard winter, she had it she could smell t’wreaths in t’house every day for a month before.”
“Ay, well, you’d best put it out of your head as sharp as you can,” Will soothed him, moving away. “You’re bothering overmuch about the farm, that’s what it is. A nip o’ frost in the air’ll likely set you right. Weather’s enough to make anybody dowly, it’s that soft.”
“Ay, it’s soft,” Simon agreed, lifting his eyes to look at the sky, and wondering suddenly how long it had taken the gull to get itself out to sea. His brother nodded and went away, and he drifted unwillingly into the inn. The chimes had finished their ill-omened song, but the echo of it still seemed to linger on the air. They told him inside that Mr. Dent was engaged, so he went into the bar to wait, seating himself where he could see the stairs. The landlord tried to coax him to talk, but he was too melancholy to respond, and could only sit waiting for the door to open
