Sally stood looking at her with an expression of mingled pity, curiosity and awe. She had pitied her often enough before, but she had never before seen her through the slightest veil of romance. Sometimes, indeed, the tale of the damaged wedding-day had touched her imagination like the scent of a bruised flower, but it was so faint and far-off that it passed again like a breath. Today, however, she had that sudden sense of exquisite beauty in the old, which all must feel who see in them the fragile storehouses of life. The old woman had known so much that she would never know, looked on a different world with utterly different eyes. There was romance in the thought of the dead she had seen and spoken to and laughed with and touched and loved. And even now, with the flower of her life apparently over and withered back again to its earth, this sudden splendour of Geordie had blossomed for her at the end.
The girl waited a moment, hoping for a word, and then, though rather reluctantly, turned towards the door. She wanted to hear still more about the marvellous news, but the old woman looked so tired that she did not like to ask. She was anxious, too, to get back to the kitchen to keep an eye on Mary Phyllis. Yet still she lingered, puzzled and curious, and still touched by that unusual sense of awe. An exotic beauty had passed swiftly into the musty air of Eliza’s parlour, a sense of wonder from worlds beyond … the strong power of a dream.
“You’re overtired, aren’t you, Aunt Sarah?” she repeated, for want of something better to say. She spoke rather timidly, as if aware that the words only brushed the surface of deeper things below.
Sarah answered her without opening her eyes.
“Ay, my lass. Just a bit.”
“You’d best stop here quietly till Uncle Simon’s yoked up. I’ll see nobody bothers you if you feel like a nap. I’d fetch you a drop of cowslip wine, but mother’s got the key.”
“Nay, I want nowt wi’ it, thank ye,” Sarah said. “I’ll do all right.” She lifted her hands contentedly, and folded them in her lap. “Likely I’ll drop off for a minute, as you say.”
“Ay, well, then, I’d best be getting back.” She moved resolutely now, but paused with her hand on the latch. “Aunt Sarah,” she asked rather breathlessly, “was all that about Cousin Geordie true?”
Sarah’s lids quivered a little, and then tightened over her eyes.
“Ay. True enough.”
“It’s grand news, if it is! … I’m right glad about it, I’m sure! I’ve always thought it hard lines, him going off like that. And you said he’d done well for himself, didn’t you, Aunt Sarah? … Eh, but I wish Elliman could make some brass an’ all!”
“There’s a deal o’ power in brass.” The words came as if of themselves from behind the mask-like face. “Folks say it don’t mean happiness, but it means power. It’s a stick to beat other folk wi’, if it’s nowt else.”
“I don’t want to beat anybody, I’m sure!” Sally laughed, though with tears in her voice. “I only want what’s my own.”
“Ay, we all on us want that,” Sarah said, with a grim smile. “But it’s only another fancy name for the whole world!”
⸻—
She sat still for some time after the girl had gone out, as if she were afraid that she might betray herself before she was actually alone. Presently, however, she began to rock gently to and fro, still keeping her hands folded and her eyes closed. The good chair moved easily without creak or jar, and the good cushions adapted themselves to every demand of her weary bones. Geordie should buy her a chair like this, she told herself as she rocked, still maintaining the wonderful fiction even to herself. She would have cushions, too, of the very best, covered with silk and cool to a tired cheek. A footstool, also, ample and well stuffed, and exactly the right height for a pair of aching feet.
But though one half of her brain continued to dally with these pleasant fancies, the other was standing amazed before her late stupendous act. She was half-aghast, half-proud at the ease with which she had suddenly flung forth her swift, gigantic lie. Never for a moment had she intended to affirm anything of the kind, never as much as imagined that she might hint at it even in joke. She had been angry, of course, bitter and deeply hurt, but there had been no racing thoughts in her mind eager to frame the princely tale. It had seemed vacant, indeed, paralysed by rage, unable to do little else but suffer and hate. And then suddenly the words had been said, had shaped themselves on her lips and taken flight, as if by an agency with which she had nothing to do. It was just as if somebody had taken her arm and used it to wave a banner in the enemy’s face; as if she were merely an instrument on which an angry hand had suddenly played.
So she was not ashamed, or even really alarmed, because of this inward conviction that the crime was not her own. Yet the voice had been hers, and most certainly the succeeding grim satisfaction and ironic joy had been hers! She allowed herself an occasional chuckle now that she was really alone, gloating freely over Eliza’s abasement and acute dismay. For once at least, in the tourney of years, she had come away victor from the fray. No matter how she was made to pay for it in the end, she had had the whip-hand of Blindbeck
