“Ah, that’s true,” she sighed, lifting the corner of her apron to her eyes with her disengaged hand. “I knowed that long ago. I’ll tell yo’ about it. It seems to coomfort me like to talk about him. ’Twas jest sich a neet as this—I wur sittin’ nigh to fire thinkin’ on him—he’d been gone a good few months then, and I began o’ wonderin’ how soon I met reckon to see him back, and to plan what a welcome I’d gi’e him. Eh, I wur ashamed o’ mysel’ and my ill-tempers by that time, and I thought soon as ever I see him comin’ I’d run and throw my arms round’s neck and ax his parden. And then I’d bring him in, I thought, and set him i’ th’ cheer here, and tell him that the wife and the whoam would always be ready and waitin’ for him. But all on a sudden I bethought mysel’ that it wur a very stormy neet, and I geet all of a shake thinkin’ of him out yon on the dark wayter, and every time the big waves ’ud lep up an’ roar upo’ the shore, I’d beat my breast and pray to the Lord to ha’ mercy on the folks at say, and not to let my dear lad dee wi’out I see him agin and knowed he forgive me. It got to be a dark neet, but I couldna go to bed, but sot here cryin’ and prayin’ by the fire till the cowd grey morn coom. And then there coom a quiet minute, as if storm was howdin’ back for summat, and I heard plain the three taps o’ th’ window as Will always made, and I looked up and there he wur, lookin’ at me and smilin’ so lovin’. I jumped up fro’ my cheer—this here cheer as was stood in this here corner jest as it is now, and I ran towards window, and I see him plain—as plain as I see you jest now. His face were a bit pale, and the wayter wur drippin’ fro’s hair, and fro’s cloo’es—he was as weet as weet. But he stood there smilin’, and lookin’ at me lovin’.
“‘Bide a bit,’ says I, ‘I’ll oppen door in a minute.’ And I ran to door, and oppened it, and wind and rain coom rushin’ in. Down yon on the shore I could hear waves rushin’ and roarin’—I could scarce mak’ my voice heerd wi’ th’ din. ‘Coom in, Will,’ says I, ‘coom in. Dunnot stond theer i’ th’ wind and the rain. Coom in to thy wife.’ But nobry answered, and then I run round the corner, wrastlin’ wi’ the wind as was near liftin’ me off my feet, and when I come to the window there weren’t nobry theer. Eh, you may think how I skriked out. I run round the house agin and looked in at door, but theer warn’t nobry inside, and then I coom out agin, and sarched and sarched, an’ called an’ called, but I heerd naught but wind and rain, and the waves thunderin’ o’ th’ beach.
“An’ then I knew he wur dead.”
Her voice, which had been lifted excitedly as she told her tale, dropped at its close, and the hand, which had twitched convulsively in mine, lay passive once more. It was an eerie tale, but convincing withal, and my eyes again stole towards the window nervously.
“Did you think he had come again when I knocked to-night, then?” I inquired, after a pause.
She nodded.
“Have you ever seen him or his spirit since the night you told me of?”
“Nay, ma’am, but I’m all’ays waitin’ for him.”
“You think he will come?”
“I know he’ll come,” she said. “Eh, I wish to the Lord he would coom. I am longing for’t.”