“Happen it was some private business,” Will said, “and nowt to do wi’ you at all. … What did you think o’ doing when you’ve quit the farm?”
Simon poked the flags harder than ever, and from injured dignity sank to sulks. The sudden pressure of his arm moved the somnolent cow to a sharp kick. When he spoke it was in a surly tone, and with his eyes turned away from Will’s.
“I’ll have to get a job o’ some sort, I reckon, to keep us going. I’m over old for most folk, but I could happen do odds and ends—fetching milk and siding up, and a bit o’ gardening and suchlike. The trouble is the missis won’t be able to do for herself before so long. The doctor tellt her today she was going blind.”
His brother’s face filled at once with sympathy and dismay. In that forbidden compartment of his mind where he sometimes ventured to criticise his wife, he saw in a flash how she would take the news. This latest trouble of Sarah’s would indeed be the summit of Eliza’s triumph. Poverty Sarah had withstood; blindness she might have mastered, given time; but poverty and blindness combined would deliver her finally into the enemy’s hand.
“I never thought it would be as bad as that,” he murmured pityingly. “It’s a bad business, is that! … Didn’t doctor say there was anything could be done?”
“There was summat about an operation, but it’ll get no forrarder,” Simon said. “They fancy things is hardly in Sarah’s line.”
“If it’s brass that’s wanted, you needn’t fash over that. …” He added more urgently as Simon shook his head, “It’d be queer if I grudged you brass for a thing like yon!”
“You’re right kind,” Simon said gratefully, “but it isn’t no use. She’s that proud, is Sarah, she’ll never agree. I doubt she just means to let things slide.”
“She’s no call, I’m sure, to be proud with me!” Will’s voice was almost hot. “I’ve always been ready any time to stand her friend. Anyway, there’s the offer, and she can take it or leave it as best suits her. If she changes her mind after a while, she won’t find as I’ve altered mine. … But there’s no sense in your taking a job and leaving a blind woman to fend for herself. There’s nowt for it but Sarah’ll have to come to us.”
Simon laughed when he said that, a grim, mirthless laugh which made the dog open his sleepless eyes and throw him a searching glance.
“Nay, nay, Will, my lad! It’s right good of you, but it wouldn’t do. A bonny time you’d have, to be sure, wi’ the pair on ’em in t’house! And anyway your missis’d never hear tell o’ such a thing, so that fixes it right off.”
“It’s my own spot, I reckon!” Will spoke with unusual force. “I can do as suits me, I suppose. T’lasses hasn’t that much to do they can’t see to a blind body, and as for room and suchlike, there’ll be plenty soon. Young Battersby’s made it up with our Em, and it’s more than time yon Elliman Wilkinson was thinking o’ getting wed. He’s been going with our Sally a terble long while, though he and Mary Phyllis seem mighty throng just now. Anyway, there’ll be a corner for Sarah right enough—ay, and for you an’ all.”
But Simon shook his head again, and stood up straight and took his arm off the back of the cow.
“There’d be murder, I doubt,” he said quite simply, and this time he did not laugh. “There’s bad blood between they two women as nobbut death’ll cure. Nay, I thank ye right enough, Will, but yon horse won’t pull. …
“I mun get a job, that’s all,” he went on quickly, before Will could speak again, “and some sort of a spot where t’neighbours’ll look to the missis while I’m off. I’ll see t’agent agen and try to ram into him as I mean to gang, and if you hear of owt going to suit, you’ll likely let me know?”
Will nodded but did not answer because of approaching steps, and they stood silently waiting until the cowman showed at the door. At once the deep symphony of the hungry broke from the cattle at sight of their servant with his swill. The quiet picture, almost as still as if painted on the wall, upheaved suddenly into a chaos of rocking, bellowing beasts. The great heads tugged at their yokes, the great eyes pleaded and rolled. The big organ-notes of complaint and desire chorded and jarred, dropping into satisfied silence as the man passed from stall to stall. Will jerked his head after him as he went out at the far door, and said that he would be leaving before so long.
“Eh? Taylor, did ye say?” Simon stared, for the man had been at Blindbeck for years. “What’s amiss?”
“Nay, there’s nowt wrong between us, if you mean that. But his wife’s father’s had a stroke, and wants him to take over for him at Drigg. News didn’t come till I was off this morning, or I might ha’ looked round for somebody while I was in t’town.”
Simon began a fresh violent poking with his ancient stick. “You’ll ha’ somebody in your eye, likely?” he enquired. “There’ll be plenty glad o’ the job.”
“Oh, ay, but it’s nobbut a weary business learning folk your ways.” He glanced at his brother a moment, and then looked shyly away. “If you’re really after a shop, Simon, what’s wrong wi’ it for yourself?”
The painful colour came into the other’s averted face. He poked so recklessly that he poked the dog, who arose with an offended growl.
“Nay, it’s charity, that’s what it is! I’m over old. … You know as well as me
