Yet she longed for a last look, however far, and from her post under the lifted sash she tried to will that he should turn and send his climbing glance over the house to her window, as he had done so many times before, but her fixed gaze did not reach him. Brack would have answered it, she knew—Brack, sensitive, impressionable, ultra-self-conscious; but Lup looked straight before him with his tranquil eyes, and all the hysterical telepathy in the world might have shrieked in his ear and found him deaf. And just for that, just because he did not look, nor heed, nor answer, Francey felt wounded and full of longing; for it is always the man that turns his back that pulls at a woman’s heart.
There was a clink of milk-pails on the stone floor beneath, followed by steps on the stairs; and then the door opened, and her mother stood at her shoulder.
“You’ll get your death at yon window! For the land’s sake don’t be staring at nowt, like poor Martha at Ninekyrkes! She fair gives me the creeps. It’s about time to be stirring. I’ve been down a bit, and t’ master’s out an’ about. Yon’s Lup, I reckon. What’s he at? Feeling a bit down in the mouth, likely, but he’ll get over it. Westmorland folk be gey ill to shift, but they do rarely when they get going. Lup’ll be a sight better for a change. Canada’ll happen make a man of him—same as Brack!”
Francey said nothing, watching the pale day grow round the figure on the wall. The mother kept her light tone, but her unslept eyes were red.
“It isn’t as if he hadn’t a bit of brass. Wolf’s not the sort to send him off with his thumb in his mouth, for all his jye looks! He’s doing well by the lad, and Lup’ll be fit to do his best back again. What, I shouldn’t wonder if he’s home in a two-three year, as like Brack as one pea to another! It’s a sad pity Brack didn’t hold on till Ninekyrkes was empty. It would have been pleasant-like, having him next door.”
“Brack at Ninekyrkes!” Francey fired contemptuously. “Why, mother, he knows nothing of farming! You should hear the tales going about him. You should see his fences and his thistles! Mr. Lancaster will be having a word with him, if he doesn’t mend. He knows less about crops than I do, and I can handle a rake with him, any day!”
“Why, there’s nowt to that! Brack’s got a snack o’ yon culture you reckon so much on. He can handle that puffin’ billy o’ his, anyhow, an’ carry a smart coat an’ finger the banjo. Yon was a rare good tune he give us, t’other night at Sunflatts, with his face blacked an’ all! Lup’ll never shape for owt o’ that sort, I doubt.”
On the bank Lup turned sharply without lingering or hesitation, and dropped down into the road, the dogs springing on the instant, as if part of him. Looking straight before him, he made off towards Ninekyrkes, and they saw his fine, dark profile as he stooped to hasp a gate. Then he was gone, and the waste was empty as before. And in that moment Mrs. Dockeray forgot her daughter and forwent her methods, pressing her working face to the cold glass. Francey heard her say: “Good lad, Lup! God bless you; good lad!” and when she stood up beside her, she saw the quick tears running down the kind cheek.
“He’ll come back!” she found herself saying, vaguely wondering how the post of comforter had come to be reversed, and the elder woman nodded, passing her hand over her eyes, her subtle diplomacy broken at last to plain words.
“Ay, he’ll come back, I reckon, but he’ll happen come too late! Folk change—there’s no getting past it; we’ve got to face it out! I’ve always thought a deal of Lup. He’s the real thing, all through. Eh! an’ there’s poor Martha losing her lad! It doesn’t bide thinking on. I doubt it’ll just about finish her; there’s lile or nowt to her as it is. It’s her happiness as’ll drive off atween the shafts o’ the cart. Ay, my lass, and it’s your happiness as’ll take the road along wi’ him an’ all! What’s the use o’ schoolin’ an’ such-like if it sets you snirpin’ at the right stuff? I’ve had a good man myself, mannerly and decent, but I’ve had to be the gray mare, as I reckon you know, Michael’s that soft an’ easy led. He leans on me, does Michael, and I’d not have it different, nay, nor him neither; but there’s something better than that for a woman, and you’d have had it from Lup. He’d have been master; he’s strong enough for both an’ more, and you’d have been glad of it, every year. I’m not blaming you. It’s me that’s to blame, being over fond an’ wanting the best for you could be got. You were such a bonny barn an’ that smart, I’d have scraped the roads to get you learned an’ done by like a lady! Ay—fond—I was that! But what was to tell your happiness lay just over yon fence, an’ me blinding your eyes to it? I’ve done you a terrible big wrong. I can see that now, right enough. You’ll sorrow for it all your life, if you send him off. You’ve just to say the word, and he’ll bide. Say it, my lass! You’ll be rare an’ glad when it’s done.”