The Splendid Fairing

whole thing far too easily, he thought. First of all, he did not seem to be listening as much as he might, and then, when the notice was offered, he actually smiled! Tenants of forty years’ standing do not look to have their departure speeded with smiles. Simon thought it heartless, to say the least, and only to be excused because Mr. Dent did not know what they had to face. They had not been very satisfactory tenants, of course⁠—even Simon admitted that⁠—and it was more than likely that the agent was rather relieved. At least he was saved the unpleasant task of turning them out, a duty which, as Simon knew, had seemed imminent more than once. But they were respectable folk of good stock, and they were not entirely to blame because they were failures, too. Gravity was their due, anyhow, if not sympathy, but Mr. Dent, on this solemn occasion, seemed to be failing them in both.

“Of course you know you’re late with your notice?” he observed presently, looking up. “You ought to have made up your minds a couple of months ago.”

“Ay, we’re late, I know, but we weren’t thinking of owt o’ the sort then. I’m sorry if we’ve put you about, but you’ll not have that much trouble in getting rid of the farm. It’s nobbut a small spot, you’ll think on. It’ll let right off the reel.”

“It’s been going back a long while, though,” Dent said thoughtfully, and then felt penitent as the old man flushed. Just for the moment he had forgotten that Simon was in the room.

“Of course I know you’ve had pretty rough luck,” he went on hastily, trying to cover it up. “Sandholes holds the record for every sort of mischance. It sounds like one of the old fairytales,” he added, laughing⁠—“curses and all that!⁠ ⁠… But I can’t help thinking it would have been better for everybody if there had been a change earlier on.”

“Ay, well, you’ve gitten your change now, and no mistake about it!” Simon retorted angrily, deeply hurt. There was something wrong with the scene, though he could not tell what it was. He only knew that he had not expected it to go in the very least like this.

“It should have been made long since if it was to do you any good.⁠ ⁠…” Dent did not seem to notice that there was anything amiss. He sat, tapping the table, deep in thought, while Simon seethed.⁠ ⁠… “Sure you couldn’t put on for another year?”

This change of front upset his visitor so completely that he dropped his hat. He sat glaring at Mr. Dent with a dropped mouth.

“Nay, then, I just couldn’t!” he snapped at last, wondering whether he was on his head or his heels. “Losh save us!” he added angrily, “haven’t I tellt you I meant to gang ever since I come in? It’ll take me all my time to hang on till spring, as it is.”

“You’ve run it as close as that?” Dent enquired, and Simon gave a grunt.

“Ay, and I’m not the first as has done it, neither!”

“Couldn’t your Blindbeck brother see to give you a hand? He’s done well for himself, I should say, and his children are getting on.”

“He’s given us a hand more than once already, has Will, but there’s no sense in throwing good money after bad. We’ll have to quit next year, if we don’t this. Farm’s going back, as you say, and I’m over old to pull it round. I can’t keep going forever, nay, nor my missis, neither.”

He remembered Sarah’s eyes as he spoke, and how they were enough to clinch the matter in themselves, but he was too offended even to mention them by now. There was no telling today how Mr. Dent would take the tragic news. He had smiled and looked cheerful over the notice to quit, but Simon felt he would not be able to bear it if he smiled at Sarah’s eyes. Indeed, it was all he could do to keep a hold on himself, as it was⁠—first of all hearing that he ought to have gone long since, and then being told to stop when he’d settled to clear out!

The trend of his injured thought must have reached the other at last, for he roused himself to look at his sulky face.

“You needn’t think I’m trying to shove the place down your throat!” he said, with a laugh. “But I certainly thought you’d rather be stopping on!”

Simon felt a little appeased, though he took care not to show any sign. He growled miserably that they had never intended to quit except under a coffin-lid.

“This is where you want a lad of your own to take hold⁠—a lad with a good wife who would be able to see to you both. You’ve no news, I suppose, of that son of yours that went overseas?”

“A word or two, now and then⁠—nowt more. Nowt as’d set you running across t’countryside to hear.”

“No chance of getting him home again, is there?” Dent enquired, and Simon stared at the floor and shook his head. He must have felt a change in the atmosphere, however, for suddenly he began to repeat what Sarah had told May, how Geordie had written for money, and there had been none to send. The words came easily after he had made a start, and for the time being he forgot his resentment and injured-tenant’s pride.

“I reckon you know, sir, how it all come about. There’ll ha’ been plenty o’ folk ready to tell you, I’ll be bound, and them as knowed least’ll likely ha’ tellt you most. We never had but the one lad, Sarah and me, and, by Gox! but he was a limb! The queer thing was that my brother Will’s eldest should ha’ been the very marrow o’ mine⁠—looks, voice, ways, ay, and character an’ all. Will and me were whyet enough lads, I’m sure; it was terble strange we should breed a pair o’ rattlehorns like