"You're fond o' me, nowadays," she went on bravely, controlling herself again. "You like me well enough now, whatever you felt once. Can't you take the money for the sake of bygone times?"
But already Sarah had turned away from her and was moving towards the door. She fitted the key in the lock with the ease of use, and gave the rickety door an opening push. And again May followed and stood, strong in the courage of those who plead for the thing that they have at heart.
"Don't go away feeling mad with me, Mrs. Thornthet!" she begged. "I'm sorry I spoke as I did. Think on how happy we were together, this morning, you and me. Think how it would be if he was to come marching into the yard...."
Sarah was now over the threshold, with her hand against the door, but May's hand was also against it, refusing to let it close. Her face was white as a flower upon the dusky air, pleading and sweet with frank lips and tearful eyes. Sarah herself was engulfed by the dark house, a shadow that was yet more surely a block than the actual door. It seemed to May that she had all the passionless resistance of some ancient, immovable stone. A lantern across showed the black squares of the shippon stalls, the white coats of the beasts and Simon moving from dark to light. May did not know that the old woman's purpose was giving in the pause, that that last sentence of hers had broken the stubborn will. She waited despairingly, seeking for more to say, and finding nothing, since the right word had been said. And because she despaired she broke the pause too soon, in an access of hopelessness flinging away her chance. Taking her hand from the door, she pointed to Simon at his job.
"I'll ask Mr. Thornthet, then!" she cried sharply, beginning to move away. "Happen he'll see to it for me instead of you. Happen he'll see the offer's kindly meant, and not let pride and suchlike stand between!"
But Sarah, too, cried out before she had gone a yard, her voice harsh with wrath and a sort of fear.
"You leave Simon be," she cried fiercely,--"let him be! I've had enough o' your worry, without plaguin' him an' all. You get back to your dad, and don't come interfering again. You came between me and my lad, but you shan't meddle wi' my man! You mean well enough, I don't doubt, but you're nobbut a meddler, all the same. It never does to go shoving kindnesses at folk who keep on saying nay. If you force 'em, you do 'em more harm than good in the long run, by a deal. D'you think I want Geordie coming back in rags, as like a tramp on t'roads as a couple o' peas? D'you think I want a drunken do-nowt loafing about t'spot,--a thief, maybe, or happen summat worse? What sort o' food and drink would yon be to Blindbeck, d'you think? Eliza's gitten enough on her tongue, without the likes o' that! Nay, the lad as went was a limb, but he was bonny and smart, and Eliza'll always think of him like yon. She'll always think in her heart as he was the better o' Jim, for all she talks so loud. But if he come back to shame us, it'd rob me even o' that. I couldn't abide it!" she finished vehemently. "It'd be worse than death. I'd rather the sea took him afore ever he reached home!"
She stopped with an indrawn breath, and the door, creaking abruptly, showed that her weight was heavy on the latch. May stood still in the yard, as still as the shadow that had once again turned to ancient stone. The silence that had fallen between them seemed to push her away, to drive them so far apart that never again would they be able to speak. At last, in that terrible outpouring, May had discovered the real barrier to her desire. There were pride and generosity in the way, but there was also something which she could not fight. The monstrous, lifelong obsession of Eliza had slopped even the natural road to a mother's heart.
Fear came over her, a more terrible fear than had taken her on the sands. In the quiet spot that should have been homely because of the moving light and the dumb beasts, she had a hint of something not quite sane. Things that had no place in the life of the soil seemed suddenly to have forced a passage in. She peered into the darkness of Sarah's mind, as her bodily eyes sought for her hidden face.
She was startled into action again by the old dog's nose thrust kindly into her hand. He had listened to the urgent voices with constantly pricked ears, knowing by instinct that somebody suffered and was afraid. Now he came to May, begging her to take charge of her soul, lest he, too, whose only trust was in Man, should suffer fear. She laid her hand for a moment on the warmth of his head, dropping her gaze to meet his upturned eyes. Instantly, however, as if he had brought her a further message, she looked towards the bay, and saw the lamp in her father's window spring to life.