Part IV
Geordie-an’-Jim
I
The blackness stirred in the doorway and became human again, setting the door to the jamb with a firm, decisive push. Sarah followed the dark stone passage to the kitchen, moving with freedom on the ground she knew. In the bare, silent room, that seemed at the same time barer and yet more peopled because of the dusk, she took off her old mantle, her shabby bonnet and her black thread gloves. She set a lighted candle on the table in the middle of the room, and from the cupboard by the hearth she took paper and wood, and kindled a pale, unhomely glow in the dusty, ash-filled grate. In the outer darkness that was the scullery she filled the kettle, and brought it to wait the reluctant patronage of the fire. It was not yet night over the sands, but the candle was more than sufficient to quench the fainting effort of the day. The only outside light was the steady glow of the lamp, set in the face of the inn to call its daughter home.
Still, however, the house seemed unaroused, and would remain so until the master came in, because those who live much by themselves do not hear the sound of their own feet. They seem to themselves to move like ghosts through the rooms; it is only their thoughts that they hear about the place. And there are no houses so quiet as those which spend half their days hearkening to that eternal talker, the sea. The other half of their lives is still as the sands are still, sharing that same impression of quittance for all time.
The kitchen, once perfectly kept, was already beginning to show signs of Sarah’s failing sight. There were holes in the cloth rug which she unrolled before the fire, and slits in the patchwork cushions on the rush-bottomed chairs. The pots in the half-empty pot-rail were all askew, and the battered pewter and brass had ceased to put in its claim to be silver and gold. There was an out-of-date almanac under the old clock, and an ancient tide-table over the mantelshelf. But the real tragedy of the place was not in its poverty but in its soul. Behind the lack of material comfort there was a deeper penury still—the lack of hope and a forward outlook and a reason for going on. The place was cold because the hearts of its tenants were growing cold.
The candle, as always, drove the impression of utter desolation home. No other light produces that same effect of a helpless battle against the dark. No other is so surely a symbol of the defiant human soul, thinking it shines on the vast mysteries of space. No other shows so clearly the fear of the soul that yet calls its fear by the name of courage and stands straight, and in the midst of the sea of the dark cries to all men to behold that courage and take heart.
All about that little challenge of light were the brooding obscurities of sand and marsh, and, nearer yet, the looming enigma of the empty house. At the back of the mind there was always the consciousness of unlit rooms, of echoing passages, and climbing, creaking stairs. Always at night there is that mystery of terror in a half-used house, pressing on those who crouch in some charmed corner of its walls.
Sarah was different, somehow, now that she was at home, and free of the outdoor-clothes which she had worn all day. It was as if bonnet and mantle were the armour of her class, in which she was ready to face the offensive of the world. Without it she was more primitive and more human, relaxed in muscles and nerves. Now one could guess at the motherliness in her to which Jim had clung, unswervingly trusting in spite of her dislike. Her grey hair had been slightly ruffled both by the bonnet and the drive, and on her old neck it even curled a little, showing itself still soft and fine.
She was tired with that terrible tiredness which sees the day behind like a series of folding cardboard views. She seemed to have lived many days in that single day, with never a moment between them to fit her for the next. More than once, indeed, she had been ready to collapse, but always the stimulus of some fresh event had set her going again. Now she had reached the point when she was too tired to allow herself to be tired, when body and mind, usually careful to save the next day’s strength, recklessly lay both hands upon their all.
Even at the last moment had come the sudden struggle with May, and the zest of that strife still tingled in her veins. After that long day of damaged pride it was pleasant to have asserted it in the end, to have claimed the right to suffer rather than be forcibly blessed. All day she had tasted in prospect the salt savour of another’s bread, but here was something that she could refuse. She was still too stiff with fight to care that she had wounded a generous nature in the act. It was true that she could not have borne the sight of a Geordie who would have brought her fresh disgrace. The love that cares for the broken more than the sound could not thrive while she feared the sneer of the idol to whom she would not bow.
Beyond, in the dairy, there came the sound of metalled boots, and the pails spoke musically on the flags as Simon set them down. She heard him shuffling across to open the inner door, and then—“Milk’s in, missis!” he called to her, as his head came through.
There was a nervous sound in his voice, at which Sarah almost
