The farther view and deeper estimate had to come. He was not near reaching them yet, nor had he developed anything like the attitude that Amelia Winter prophesied; but his brain now began to tune for a new outlook. The answer that he must make to the destruction of all his intentions and decisions was not so far propounded. He still loitered in thought with himself, but as he approached the valley in which his life had been passed, its tenderness and joyful, vernal spirit unconsciously influenced him, distracting his mind away from himself—not to the unconscious phenomena around him—but to the supreme and solemn figure in the fantasy now at an end. He thought of his wife. Whereupon a new phase opened in his mental processes and he began to regard with naked eyes the edifice of the past. Dwelling now upon the trial, he asked himself whether he still persisted in his former convictions, or whether the united and independent judgment of his fellow-men had proved their falsehood. That he could even propose this question calmly was a fact sufficient to indicate the answer. No such possibility would have entered his mind, had he not been prepared to weigh it and ultimately accept it. Yet he hesitated for the present to tell himself that he was convinced; for that admission meant such stultification of self, such absolute abnegation and retraction, such penitence, contrition and atonement, that he doubted his power to attain to them. Only did it seem possible to do so by keeping Margery and her sufferings in the forefront of his mind; and that was not practicable until he decided whether he would accept the decisions uttered against him, admit the justice of the world's rebuke and proceed to create a new life on the ground blasted, but also cleansed, by these fires.
Before he reached William Marydrew's house he began to plan the future, as though he had the planning and need but indicate his purpose to see life fall in with it!
Abased indeed he must stand; but his particular sort of pride was not going to suffer eternally before a confession of error. So he told himself and already half believed that the opinion of his fellow-men would weigh little against the possibility of reconciliation. In that case all future life should be devoted on his part to atoning for the awful wrongs he had put upon her; and the censure of others, at worst, must be thistledown to the stinging hail of his own self-condemnation.
He saw all existence to be narrowed to this one ambition, and so swiftly and inconsequently was his broken intelligence now moving, that he had already swept the past away and pressed on to the future and the tasks that there awaited him. Through these immense changes his mind sped among the bluebells; then he walked in sight of the man and woman talking at William's cottage door, and Amelia hastily departed.
"There he cometh!" she said. "Pounding over the ground—boring along like a bull—the hateful creature. And now he can bore into the earth and bide there; for there won't be the face of a decent man, woman, or child to welcome him no more."
"Yes, there will," replied Billy. "A man there is, if I'm still worth to be called one, and a child there is, while his youngest remains. Soften your heart, Amelia, for surely the conquerors can afford to forgive."
She went off and in a few minutes Bullstone reached Mr. Marydrew. He was full of his own thoughts and present ambitions; but he felt the necessity to retrace the ground and, even in his present excitation, could remember that he had reached a point which William could not possibly understand until he had been informed of some of the stages that had served to lift Jacob from the depths to the situation he now occupied.
He came in, thankfully accepted the offer of a cup of tea and spoke while William prepared it.
He had already reached the conclusion that he must confess absolute error without excuse. For a moment he had considered the justice of such a complete surrender, by arguing that the play of circumstances were to a large extent responsible for his mistakes and their culmination; but he felt, before the tremendous conclusion, that any attempt to extenuate would be peddling and even dangerous. There was truth in the fact that time and chance had played his nature cruel tricks and it might be that others, after hearing the complete admission he designed, would think of these things and advance some few counters on his behalf; but he would not do it himself; he would not take refuge under any sort of justification, or seek to modify the awful thing he had accomplished. Thus the strange spectacle of a man almost cheerful in his destruction appeared to William, and he perceived at once the impatience with which Jacob recounted the details, and the anxiety under which he laboured, to get the past behind him as swiftly as possible and face the future. He was not crushed by what had happened, because he was already clinging, heart and soul, to what might happen. Horror of the thing done no longer dominated him, for interest and concentration upon the things yet to be done.
Thus he came to his ancient friend in a mood beyond Billy's imagination, and as he talked volubly and proceeded from past facts to future hopes, Mr. Marydrew perceived that an angry, old woman, in some mysterious fashion, had known better than himself how these disasters would react upon this man. For Jacob was concerned with his conclusion, not the stages that had led to it. Already he was forgetting them as though they had not existed.
"I knew I was doomed long before the end," said Bullstone. "I saw it in their faces, and I'm a reasonable man, William, and can sit here now and tell you that I wasn't obstinate and stiff-necked about it. Before the judge talked to me and told me the truth—the blessed truth, William, not the bitter truth. 'Blessed' I say, because it opens the door of the future and doesn't close it for all time. Before the judge poured his scalding words upon me, I knew they were deserved. And knowing them deserved, they hurt different from what he meant them to. That's the spirit that began to move the moment after my first enormous astonishment to find I was wrong. And the highest moment—the moment that threw all my years of agony to confusion—was when she and him were able to show the words I heard at Shipley were innocent and had to do with Samuel. From that point the tide turned—and I saw all I'd done, and looked back at a lunatic. And you see me now only hungering for the days and nights to speed past, so that the madness that have overtook me may be sunk—sunk and forgotten in the light of the sanity that's coming—that's come. For I'm here in my right mind, William."
"Don't run on too fast, however, Jacob," warned the elder. "I'm very thankful you can accept the truth, because, thank God, that leaves the door open, as you say. But you must remember that there's a lot more goes to this than for you to say you're sorry about it. You must use your good sense and your new-found wits to see how it all looked and still looks to the injured parties."
It seemed that Bullstone was doomed ever to move in the atmosphere of the unreal. Unreal grief and imaginary disasters had ruined his life; and now he sought to rebuild the wreck by his own achievements, independently of the actual course of affairs, which must depend upon others. His hopes might well prove as illusory as his vanished fears. The man's mind was always in extremes.
Billy's warning cooled Bullstone.
"I know—I know," he answered. "I'm assuming nothing. My whole life will be a long atonement to her—to lift myself from where I have sunk, till I'm worthy to be forgiven. I see that. I ask none to pardon till they can. How soon they can depends on me. I'm dealing with better people than myself; so is it too much to hope, even in this awful pass of my life, with destruction and grief around me, that I may rise myself up to be forgiven by them?"
"Not too much to hope; but a darned sight too much to happen—for a very long while, my dear," explained Mr. Marydrew. "You've done a most fearful deed and those that have suffered from it must be given a deuce of a lot of time before they can calm down and see how it all fell out—how the Devil knew your character was prone to jealousy and fooled you according. The first person for you to consider is your wife, and if you can once rub it into her, fully and frankly, that you be sure you'd done her an awful wrong and be set, while life's in your body, to atone for it, then—presently—when she gets away from the influence of her wonderful mother—perhaps.—For Margery knows the good side of you as none else does, and she's slow to anger and quick to forgive. You've got to lay the foundation of the new life, and I hope to God, my dear, you'll soon find it grow; but the shape it takes will depend a good deal on other folk so well as yourself."
"I must proclaim my wickedness and paint it so black, that the mercy of man will intervene and lessen my blame of myself, if only for the credit of human nature," said Bullstone.
"Man won't be much put about. 'Tis the mercy of woman be going to be most use to you," answered Billy. "You must court that. After all, jealousy be a left-handed compliment to them; and they can always forgive that without much trouble—up to a point. Of course you went far beyond that point, however, because the Devil got in you, and turned your eyes crooked, and made life look like a nightmare, same as it do if you see yourself in a spoon. You'll want the patience of Job to endure the next six months or so; but other men have come through and why not you?"
"I know that human nature don't forgive such cruelty as mine very easy. Awful cruel I have been—I, that thought I was made of mercy, William. So life surprises us—so we shock ourselves quite as much as we shock our neighbours. But I keep saying, 'Time's not ended: there's still time.'"
They talked for an hour, then Jacob returned home, to find Avis and Peter. They welcomed him awkwardly, as though he had been a stranger; but that had been their attitude to him of late. Auna had waited for him outside and brought him home. They had kissed but said little as yet. He spoke to his son and elder daughter that night after supper, when George Middleweek, the new kennel-man, had departed and Auna was gone to bed. He owned his errors frankly, as though he were a repentant child confessing to grown-up people. He told them of the evil that he had done, and how he prayed God and man to pardon him. With the microscopic vision of youth, they looked at their father while he spoke. They observed he was very haggard, that he had not shaved and that one of his eyes was shot with blood.
"You're old enough to understand," he said. "I've done a very mistaken, terrible thing and wronged your dear mother as never a good, noble woman was wronged before. There aren't words to say how wicked I've been—nor yet how sorry I am. You must all be patient with me, Peter, and try to forgive me if you can."
They looked at him silent and round-eyed. His appeal embarrassed them and they knew not what to say to him.
"Mother's won, then?" asked Avis, screwing up her courage to the question.
"By the blessing of God she has, Avis."
Uneasily conscious that a man ought not so to speak to his children, they stole away presently, and then breathed again.
There was no pity in them. They only gloried in their father's defeat, as they knew that others would.
"It's knocked the stuffing out of him," said Peter.
"So it has. I hope mother's all right," answered his sister.
"You bet she's all right: she's won. And grandmother and grandfather and Mr. Winter's all right too," promised Peter.
From his false dawn of hope Jacob sank presently into lethargy and reaction. He recalled William Marydrew's speeches for comfort, but found that more than comfort was in them. With night and silence he lay awake reflecting on his wife. Everything depended upon her, not upon him. Could her merciful spirit, even under this awful provocation, become permanently ruthless? He was already fighting fiercely for the rags of his future, in hope to find decent covering among them. The court, the jury, the adverse verdict, the minatory judge were sunk into shadowlands, that mattered less than a bad dream.
A longing to annihilate time—to crush it, absorb it, put it behind him—dominated Jacob from the hour of his return. He had been for three days from home and found that nothing specially demanded his attention, save letters which Peter could not write. All went smoothly with his business and he was free to concentrate on the greater matter of his life. He told himself that propitiation would be demanded by many. His wife came first, but he felt that uncertain periods of time must be suffered before he could dare to approach her. With Adam Winter, however, his own feverish desire to begin his task assured Jacob that there need be no delay. To put himself right with this wronged man was the thing nearest to his hand, and two days after returning home, he sought out Adam at Shipley.
It chanced that, as he approached the farm, Samuel emerged from a barn. Seeing Bullstone, he grew very red, his jaw worked, and he mopped and mowed like a monkey, but did not speak. The visitor saw hate in his face and rage uncontrolled by reason. Sammy spat on the ground and glowered and watched his enemy pass to the door. Then, having knocked, Jacob looked around, with an instinct to keep his eye on the weak-minded man. But Adam's brother had already departed.
Amelia Winter answered his call and her face seemed to grow smaller when she looked upon him. She shrank back and her bosom rose and she became pale. She waited for him to speak.
"Good morning, Miss Winter," he said. "I'm very wishful to see your nephew if you will tell me where I am likely to find him."
She did not answer, but left Jacob and went into the house-place. There he heard the murmur of voices, and then Adam came down the stone-paved passage. He was in his working clothes.
"I should think it a great favour if you would let me speak to you for a few minutes," said Bullstone. "I've no right to come before you, but none the less venture to do it."
Adam looked at him without animation or emotion. Only a weary indifference marked his face and echoed in his voice. He was not thinking of Jacob, but his aunt. Amelia had told him that Bullstone would quickly come to grovel. He had much doubted this, but made up his mind to listen if Jacob did seek him.
"If you'll step in here," he said, and opened a door on the left of the entrance.
Jacob went in before him, took off his hat and sat down on a chair by the empty hearth. It was the parlour of Shipley and seldom used. Adam Winter, with his hands in his pockets, walked to the window and stood looking out of it.
"Words are poor things before this business," began Bullstone, "and I won't keep you, or waste your time with many. I've wasted enough of your time, and if you could tell me what that waste stood for in figures, I'd be thankful to make it up to you. I'm only here now to express my abiding sorrow and grief at what I've done, and acknowledge how basely I have wronged you. You know I've wronged you, of course—so does the rest of the world; but you didn't yet know that I know it. I want you to understand that I accept the judgment and all that was said against me, because I deserved every word of it. I've done terrible evil, and the fag end of my life I shall spend in trying to make amends, so far as it lies in my power. After my poor wife, you are the one who has got most cause to hate me and most cause to demand from me the utmost atonement I can make. But first I ask you, as a good Christian, called to suffer untold trouble through no fault of your own, to pardon those who have trespassed against you. I beg you to forgive me, Adam Winter, and tell me that you can. That's all for the minute."
Winter listened and nodded his head once or twice. He was listless and melancholy. When he spoke he might have been the worsted man, for his voice had none of the ring and conviction of the other's.
"I forgive you, Jacob Bullstone. That's easy enough. And since you are here, I'll speak too, because some inner things didn't come out at the trial. I want you to know that I never heard tell you were a jealous man. Your wife, no doubt, had cause to know it; but if she ever mentioned the fact to anybody, which is little likely, it wasn't to me. Decent partners hide each other's faults because it's seemly they should, and Mrs. Bullstone wasn't more likely to hint at a soft spot in you than, I suppose, you would have been to whisper any weakness you might have found in her. So I knew nothing, and I came into this horror as innocent as my sheep-dog; and if I'd dreamed how it was, I'd have left Shipley years and years ago, at any cost to myself and my family."
"I believe it," answered Jacob. "I understand the manner of man you are now, and the false light that's blinded me these many years is out. And if I could take your sufferings off your shoulders and endure them for you, thankfully I'd do it. I want to be the only one to suffer now—the only one to carry this burden."
"Yes, yes—no doubt. The past is past, and if the past didn't always flow, like a river, into the present and future, life would be as easy for us as for the beasts, that only know the present. Good-bye. God help you and all of us."
He indicated that the interview was done; but Jacob did not move. He only blundered on, uttering promises and hopes for the future which, to Adam Winter, sounded inconceivably vain.
"And that," said Jacob at last, "brings me to my wife."
"Please don't talk about her to me," interrupted the other. "Can't you see——?"
"I see nothing," answered Bullstone. "But I feel—I feel everything. The past is past, as you say, and past praying for; but there's the future. I thought perhaps you might—I can't go before her—not for many, many days. But you——"
"Me! Good God, man, what are you made of? Me! Don't you understand? But try—try to understand. Try to understand that other men can feel as much as you do and suffer as much. What you've done don't end with yourself and your troubles; what you've done never will end at all in some directions. It's altered the very stuff of life for a score of people. Poison be poison, and we have each got to fight it in our own way. I shall never speak to Mrs. Bullstone again as long as I live—nor she to me. That goes without speech surely? Haven't you seen even so far? Do you suppose nobody's got to go on living and smarting but you?"
It was Winter who had now grown animated and shown a flash of emotion at Jacob's self-absorbed attitude; while Bullstone sank into greater restraint before this larger vision.
"Thank you," he said, rising. "You put me right. My head's in a whirl. I only felt a great longing come over me. But I dare say it's all too late. I won't trouble you no more. Time will show what I feel to you."
"Hold in then," advised the other, his passing fire dead. "Hold in and give time a chance. You can't do time's work, but you may easily undo it. And if time can't serve you, I don't see what can, always excepting your Maker. But lie low—don't go thrusting forward, just because you've got a longing to get right with people. No doubt you have; but things—there—who am I to preach to you? Leave it, leave it and be gone."
They parted and Jacob, walking on the Brent road to wait for Auna, who had gone that day to the post-office, pondered the new standpoint set before him. He perceived that he had been shameless, and once more stood under correction from the man he had wronged. Adam Winter was right. He must 'hold in.' The storm had yet to burst—the storm of public opinion. He knew not where it might drive him. He had been so eager to start upon the great business of building again that he overlooked the extent of the ruins. His spirit fainted for a little while; and then he turned to think upon Margery and consider her present attitude. Did she recognise the possibility of any reparation? He did not know, yet believed that she presently might. But clearly it was not in his power to anticipate time. He must be patient and endure and see days, weeks, months drag interminably.
He perceived how the disaster had stricken and changed Winter—how deeply it had tinctured his thought and bred bitterness in a man hitherto devoid of bitterness. Winter was right to be impatient with him. He had greatly erred to approach Winter so soon. He saw that restraint was called for, and restraint had always been easy to him until now. He, too, was changed, and no doubt everybody who had endured this violence was also changed, if only for a season. Winter had said that things must always be different for ever. That meant that his evil action would actually leave an impress on character—on many characters.
He wished greatly that his wife were alone, to pursue the future in temporary isolation. Then, with the children to go and come.... But she was not alone and therein he began to see his greatest danger. She would never be alone, and the influences under which she dwelt would be directed against her own nature and qualities, for she was not strong enough, physically or mentally, to oppose her mother. She never had been, even when, as sometimes happened, the will existed to oppose her.
Jacob met Auna speeding homeward and she had not changed. Her caresses and smiles greatly heartened him; but she was timid and clearly under influence. He waited for her to speak of her mother, but she did not.
"I hope mother is pretty well again, Auna?" he asked as they neared home, but Auna shook her head resolutely.
"Grandmother made me promise not to speak of mother. She said you wouldn't wish it; and I did promise, father."
"Then you must keep your promise," he answered. "I've done terrible things, Auna, but I'm punished for doing them, and I'm very sorry for doing them, and I hope in time everybody will forgive me."
"I forgive you," she said, "and I never, never will go away from you, so long as you want me."
She held his hand tightly and he guessed that the future had been considered.
"Home is home," he told her, and something in the phrase, striking upon thoughts which were hidden from her father, but belonged to her recent experiences, made the child begin to cry. He guessed that she knew of decisions as yet concealed from him, and that she cried rather for him than herself.
"Cheer up," he said. "There's all the future to try and put things right in, Auna. And you to help me—such a helpful treasure is to me always."
"Grandmother," she sobbed, and Jacob began to comprehend. He was still untutored and in no mood for delay. He devoted a great part of that night to writing to Mrs. Huxam, and next day sent a long letter to her by Avis. It was a letter into which he poured the full flood of his contrition. He confessed his error and the horrible ingredient of character that had vitiated life for him and Margery. He declared himself healed and purified, and implored that his wife's parents, from their Christian standpoint, would be merciful to the weak and not bar the door to a reconciliation in the future. He humiliated himself and felt no restraining pride to control his abasement. Finally he invited the Huxams to define the situation, that he might know if the time to come held any hope, and he explained that he left himself entirely in his wife's hands. Anything that she might direct and desire he would perform; he suggested leaving Red House for a time and absenting himself indefinitely should Margery wish to return home. He explained that the empty house at Huntingdon Warren was now rented by him, and that he would be very willing to go there at once and remain there for some months if the proposition commended itself to them. Thus he sought to be even with time by allowing Margery to plan it. He erred every way, but did no harm, because Avis brought his letter back unopened in the evening.
"Grandmother says I'm to tell you she don't want any letters from you, father," she said.
He took his bulky packet.
"And is that all she said?" he asked.
"That's all."
"Did you see your mother, Avis?"
"Yes, I did. She's not well, and I'm not to say anything about her."
"This letter was as much for your grandfather as your grandmother," explained Jacob; "and if she won't read it, then he must."
"He won't read it if she tells him not to," answered Avis. "He's against you, same as everybody else is against you, father."
Jacob did not argue upon the subject, but after two days of silence, during which no communication or message reached him, he went into Brent and entered the post-office.
Barlow Huxam was behind the counter and he grew red and puffed his cheeks when he saw Jacob.
"This is very inconvenient," he said, "I wish you wouldn't come here. Nothing can be gained—nothing whatever."
"I didn't want to come; but I wrote to Mrs. Huxam—a very vital letter which I imagined she would show to you. All she did was to return it to me unopened. That is senseless, because the position must be defined. We must know where we stand."
Barlow considered.
"It is defined," he answered. "Nothing could be more definite and we know where we stand very well. You heard with your ears I suppose—same as everybody else in court. Your case broke down and you became a laughing-stock to all honest men, and the judge summed up against you and told you the fearful truth about yourself, to which your own nature had long made you a stranger. The case was dismissed and you were left to pay the costs. That's all there is to it, Jacob Bullstone, and I suppose you don't want me or anybody else to tell you what follows."
"That's exactly what I do want you to tell me; and that you might be the better able to tell me, I wrote this letter, explaining how I stand to you and your wife and my wife. I have a right to ask you to read it, Mr. Huxam."
"Not at all," answered the other. "I don't grant you have any right to ask anything."
Judith entered the shop at this moment, perceived the men were talking and the woman in the postal department was listening.
"If you'll come through into the private room, Mr. Bullstone," she said, "it will be better."
She lifted a bridge in the counter and he, winning hope from her peaceful tone, followed into a room behind. Barlow accompanied them and explained to his wife.
"He says he's in his right we read his letter, and I deny it. He has no rights."
"Since he's forced himself here," she said in her quiet, level voice, "he can listen, and then he can go. But speak he shall not to me. 'Rights!' What rights has a man who puts his wife away from him on a foul lie? What rights has a man who breaks up his home and drives his family to fly from him for their salvation? Let him understand this: he doesn't exist for us any more. We don't know him and don't dirty our lips, or our thoughts, with his name. Never—never, so long as any of us live. We're Christians here, and we have forgiven the awful wrong done against us, because well we know that our Maker called us to suffer it. And I see clear enough now why. But that's our affair, and if we endure evil that good may come, that's no reason why we should suffer the evil made flesh in the shape of this man. Far from it. We've forgiven before our God; but before our God also, we stand here and say we'll have no more truck with the source of our sufferings and shame. For us he is a nameless terror to fly from, as we fly from his master, the Devil."
"Is that forgiveness?" asked Bullstone.
"It has nothing to do with forgiveness. You are forgiven; but what comes after is our duty to our Creator, who orders us to avoid evil and all those damned to ever-lasting fire."
"Are you speaking for yourself alone?" he asked.
"No. I'm speaking for my husband and family—my children and my grandchildren. By the will of God a lost soul, such as you are, can be suffered to breed saved souls. That's a mystery; but so it happens. And when your children come of age, they'll be faced with their duty; and they'll see it very clear indeed. Now I'll ask you to go; and it will be better, when you have dealings with the post-office, to send a messenger and never come again yourself so long as we remain here."
She spoke slowly and without emotion. Jacob looked at his father-in-law.
"And do you say ditto to this devilish speech?" he asked.
"Ditto to every word of it," answered Barlow. "And so would any man who sees his wronged child wilting like a flower, and marks her bitter sufferings and ruined home and broken heart. And——"
"That's enough," interrupted Mrs. Huxam. "That's nothing to him. Tell him to go."
Jacob Bullstone did not speak and left the post-office immediately.
He began to grasp the situation at last, and surveyed his futile ambitions since the trial.
"Time won't be balked," he thought. "I was all wrong and stand worse off than when I started."
He determined on huge patience and felt where the fight must lie. Nothing was clear and nothing could be clear, until he saw his wife, face to face, without witnesses. Only a far future might open any such opportunity, even if she allowed him to take it when it came. His course seemed evident to him. He must contrive through some secret channel to learn what his wife was thinking and planning. But he doubted not that, unlike himself, her mind was still in flux and no anodyne deadening her resentment. Forgiveness, in any other than a religious sense, must be vain for many days.
He leapt from one extreme to the other, and having sought an understanding instantly, out of his instinctive rage for action, now told himself that years must pass before any light could be hoped. For a full twelve months he vowed to himself that he would not raise a finger. Half his savings had been swallowed up by the trial at law. He dwelt on the necessity for hard work and increase of business, to make good this serious loss. Work had proved a panacea on many occasions of past tribulation; work had helped time to stretch a gulf between former troubles and himself. He must fall back upon work now.
His punishment had begun and he prepared to welcome it, still trusting time to bring some Indian summer for his later days. He admitted the justice of long-drawn retribution. It was right that an extended vengeance should be required. He welcomed it and bent his spirit to endure it, thus assuming a temporary pose and attitude which it was impossible that his character could sustain.
Margery Bullstone had never poured herself out and lost her stream in the river of her husband, after the fashion of certain devoted wives. She had loved him truly, generously, until time and chance and the wear and attrition of dissimilar natures fretted the love thin; but her own individuality persisted always, being maintained by the close touch which she kept with its sources: her parents and her old home. Without that forcible influence she might have merged more completely in Jacob and his interests; but her attitude to her mother had ever been one of great respect and reverence, and she implanted the same in her children, as they came to years of understanding. A different husband—one who saw life nearer her own vision—had, perhaps, won her completely to the diminishing of other and earlier influences; but Bullstone failed in this by his own limitations and oppositions; therefore when the culmination came and his deep-rooted sickness overthrew her home, Margery left Red House thankfully and regarded her liberty with relief.
She was sustained in this emotion until after the excitement of the trial, and everything, during the months before that event, contributed to support her spirit; but only a false activity is that of those who feed upon their wrongs; and when all was over and the business of her future life had to be faced, there came gusts of reaction to Margery and a realisation,—slow, fitful, painful—of the change for the worse. She caught herself looking back, and the alterations in her mental and physical life bore fruit. She was as one suddenly widowed; but the inevitability brought by death and the sense of a common lot was not here to help her endure the bewildering dislocation and destruction. All that she had made was gone, and she was faced with the necessity to build up a new existence, differing in every condition from the old. Even peace was denied her. She could not think for herself, for every half-spoken thought was taken out of her lips and developed by her mother. She suffered domination, but found it a sorry substitute for her old independence. She could not be a child again. Only her own children were left, and from them, also, a new mind was demanded. But they were going on with their lives: her life had stopped, and none at present guessed the psychological significance of this sudden hiatus in Margery's existence.
She felt ill when she returned from London with her father, and having participated in her triumph, slowly sickened at the aspect of the future now presented and the convulsion created by dropping from a full life into an empty one. Her old physical weakness increased. A change was urged upon her by the village doctor, who had always attended her, and she went to stay with her uncle, Lawrence Pulleyblank, at Plymouth. But associations caused her to suffer so acutely here, that it was clear nothing could be gained by present sojourn in her uncle's house. She came back to Brent, and then fell the first shadow of implicit antagonisms between herself and her mother. For Judith contrived that Margery should not see her children alone upon their constant visits; while she sought opportunity to do so. Mrs. Huxam indeed felt little need to insist upon the condition, for she had no reason to doubt of her daughter's attitude. It was only a measure of precaution, and she had instilled the need for silence upon all of them. At present she detected no premonition of mental weakness in Margery and did not anticipate it. But her daughter's health was bad; she ate too little, shirked exercise and remained melancholy, listless and indifferent. Judith held her state easy to understand, and had enough imagination to grant that it must be some time before Margery would regain nerve, courage and peace of mind; but that the woman, now idle and incapacitated, was looking back and dwelling in the past, Mrs. Huxam, though she might have granted, would not have regarded as likely. The past could offer no healing drought for Margery. She found easy present occupation, therefore, drew her daughter into the shop sometimes and contrived short errands for her. Then Barlow pointed out that to use Margery as though she were a child again was not seemly.
To her father, Jacob's wife talked in a way she would not have spoken before her mother. Indeed her rare moments of animation belonged to him, and he was glad to let her speak of the past and forget the future in so doing. She had aged and had grown indifferent to her appearance; but the old, good days could still charm her into forgetfulness, though from the pleasant memories, return to her new life always brought reaction. Her vitality grew less as her instinctive desire for a different environment increased.
It was now understood that Jacob Bullstone's name should not be spoken, and his children were directed neither to mention their father, when they came to the post-office, nor convey any information concerning their mother to Red House. Jacob accepted this arrangement, while Margery was also constrained to do so, since she did not see her children alone. John Henry abstained from Red House after his parents parted, but he saw his mother weekly and, of course, declared himself upon her side.
"And so is every one else," he told his grandmother; "and I feel shame for the first time in my life—shame to know I'm my father's son."
This attitude he openly confessed and it was not hidden from Bullstone.
In Barlow Huxam's presence Margery sometimes allowed herself to speak of her husband. He flinched on the first occasion; but suffered it afterwards, perceiving that she won some twilight satisfaction from analysing the reason for her misfortune.
The new house rose rapidly and his daughter often accompanied the postmaster to see progress on summer evenings, when the day's work had ended and the labourers were gone.
At such times she indicated to him a little of the chaos of her present days and their lack of everything that had made life worthy to be lived.
"I was often sorry for myself," she said on one occasion, while they had sat to rest on a pile of red tiles for the new roof. "Sorry I was; yet now looking back, father, I can see that, for all its frets, I was leading a woman's full, bustling, busy life. Often it was good work, and the need to be planning and looking forward kept me hearty and strong. And now—all gone, and me turned so weak that I'm no more use to anybody."
He bade her fasten upon the future.
"You did your duty in all things, and you need feel no remorse about one hour of your married life," he said. "That's ended for no fault of yours, but through the disaster of marrying a dangerous madman—to call him no worse. Such lunatic men have often cut the throats of their innocent wives; but he done otherwise, and if he'd cut his own, he might have escaped a good deal that lies before him; and so might you. You must steadfastly fix before your mind that he has wronged you in the awfulest way a man can wrong a good wife; and you must also feel that, but for the mercy of God, worse things might well have happened to you. Put him out of your thoughts. Banish him as you would the vision of sin, Margery."
"Easy to say and easy to do sometimes; but not always," she answered. "The difficulties that you and mother think are curing themselves have hardly begun for me; because time works both ways. It lessens your pain; but it throws a different light on the sources of your pain. Some women would never lose sight of the wrong and I haven't yet; but I'm weaker than a good many. You want to be strong, like mother, to hate for ever, and I ban't built to do it."
"You must seek strength from your mother then," he answered. "She's got strength for us all, and she hates evil unsleepingly, because her mind is built on faith and justice and she looks out of eyes that never grow dim."
"Yes, I know. I love her. In some of my moods I see how grand she is; and in others I slink away, because, after all, there is such a thing as mercy. I've got time to think, and think nowadays as never I had before. There wasn't time to think in my married life, nor yet leisure to weigh things and stand outside them. I was in it all, and you can't weigh things if you are part of the reason why they happen. Now—torn away, or drove away—I can see Jacob better. He knew so little about real life and never seemed to want to know about it. I felt that Avis and John Henry had more sense of character and judged people truer than he could. He lived a very small life for choice, and it made him narrow and fostered this awful thing in him, till it grew up and wrecked him. He loved nature, but nature couldn't keep his mind sweet for long. And justice sometimes makes me see that what all looked such moonshine in the court, must have looked horribly real to him—before he rose and struck me."
"Because he was insane on that one subject and bent everything to that vile purpose."
"There it is!" she answered. "That's the point. If he was insane, as you say, then where do we stand? If those that are near and dear to us turned lepers to-morrow, should we fly from them? I feel a great deal has to be thought and said on that view, father; but I know nothing will come of it with mother, because she never changes. To her, madness is one thing and wickedness another; but grant madness, then there's no wickedness."
Mr. Huxam was a little startled before this attitude; for Margery had never yet indicated weakening, and these words clearly pointed in that direction.
"You're on dangerous ground and had better not pursue it," he answered. "We know where we stand, and when I said the man was a lunatic, I meant no more than a figure of speech. All sin may be madness seen one way; but we don't treat all sinners as madmen, else there'd be more ready to be locked up than we could find fellow-creatures to guard them. Your mother was right there—as usual. Forgive him as a Christian must; but don't keep twisting back to him in your mind. He's gone for ever; and if I thought, even in your dreams, that you could feel like going back to him, Margery, I should take a very grave view of such a fault."
"No, I wouldn't go back to him—any more than he could come back to me. For why should we think, because we won against him, that we've convinced him he was wrong?"
Mr. Huxam considered.
"We keep this subject from you, because our feeling is that it's very indecent and unbecoming and unworthy of the family to mention it," he answered, "but, since we're on it, through no choice of mine, my child, I must tell you once for all the latest facts. I'll ask you to keep what I'm going to say to yourself, for your mother might blame me to mention it; but men—even madmen—will talk, and you can't always command them to be silent, or refuse to hear what they desire to tell you. And Jacob Bullstone, in the ear of his old friend, William Marydrew, has acknowledged that he was wrong in every particular. He wrote after the trial—a letter which he first sent to your mother and then brought to the shop himself; and your mother saw him with me—for the last time—and refused to read the letter. I won't say I wouldn't have read it; but that's only to admit I haven't got the strength to judge right in a crisis like she has. But there's no doubt that in that letter he said things we might, as Christians, have been glad to hear—for his own soul's sake."
"Mother was right, however," declared Margery, "and whether he ever could endure to see me, or whether he could not, it's very certain I must be myself in that matter. I hope to God he knows he was wrong and is convinced of it, but go back to him—I couldn't now; but—oh, I'm weak as well as strong. Jacob wasn't all, father. A husband isn't a home. I loved such a lot of little things. Being denied pleasure away, I made my first and dearest pleasure there, and I did so care for plants and trees and childish things. And the river and the hills—to me all such like meant a lot. The garden was work and play both. If smoothed the harsh edges. I made it and I made my children altogether. And the river and the hills meant love—for I loved them; and they helped me to love Jacob when I felt I never should again; because they brought back the old Jacob I fell in love with. All this sounds silly to you; but twenty years is a long time—the cream of my life—the greatest part of it for a woman, when she's reigning in her home and bringing her children into the world. Red House means more than I can say—everything—good and bad alike. To me it's like the shop to you—life. You know where to put your hand on everything. You could serve blindfold. And, if I went back to-day, I could shut my eyes and go to the flowers in the garden and know which were out and which were dead and which were in bud. And—but—no, no, no! It all means nothing now. I couldn't go back—never—never."
He soothed her, but felt considerable alarm himself before these confidences. For if Margery entertained such thoughts now—removed from her wrongs by only a few months—how might she regard the situation in a year, or two years? That she should even assert that she could not go back, argued most unexpected weakness in Mr. Huxam's opinion, for when a woman was at the trouble to say she would not do a thing, that generally signified the action was by no means ruled out for her.
The stupendous thought of an ultimate condonation made him giddy—not before the spectacle of a forgiving Margery, but at the vision of Mrs. Huxam and the Everlasting.
He alluded to the latter.
"The Lord thy God is a jealous God—remember that, my child, when any shadow of regret for the past steals into your mind. It's time you braced yourself, Margery. I think you might begin working here in the new garden."
But she shook her head.
"Not yet," she said. "I'm not strong enough in mind or body yet. Flowers would hurt too much, father. I'm going to love your new house, and I'm going to live in it along with you; but flowers won't die. There's some flowers never can die for me, though they withered away a good few years ago. I shall always see them and smell them and hear the honey bees humming in 'em. But there are some I'll never touch no more."
She was worn out after this conversation and Barlow hesitated long upon the propriety of discussing the matter with Judith; but he postponed any warning in that quarter. Margery had some return of her nervous weakness and was very silent for many days; while both parents exercised patience and Mrs. Huxam began to consider the desirability of definite steps. For her daughter's health and the doctor's anxiety pointed to the need of distraction and change.
Judith busied herself to learn Margery's view, but could win no expression or desire from her respecting her future. Then she went to Plymouth to consult her brother, Lawrence. It occurred to her that his niece might perhaps make her permanent abode with the old man and find a sphere of usefulness in ministering to him.
Thus it fell out that, for once, Margery did win opportunity for a long conversation with a child; and it happened to be the one child who regarded no ground as forbidden, and rejoiced at the chance to say things with which her young heart was full.
Auna came and brought a large can full of the famous goats' milk; nor had her grandfather the heart to prevent her from carrying it to her mother, though his conscience reproached him afterwards.
To Margery came Auna and brightened at the unexpected freedom, while her mother drank at the child's command and shut her eyes that the familiar flavour of the milk might bring a thousand pictures to her mind. The visions began happily. Then they ended in darkness—on a February day, when seeking the goats, she had met with her husband hidden on the hill. For thus it was with all her memories; they were prone to break off in a sorrow. Every train of thought ran into grief—and stopped there; and she told herself that this must be surely so, since life itself had now run into grief and stopped. She knew well enough, at the bottom of her heart, that she could never begin again and start a new existence. Some women might have been strong enough to do so. Pride might have driven many to build up a new fabric; some, out of natural energy, physical strength and fulness of life, might have survived; but she could not. Nothing that waited for her would be of a zest to make like worth living; and yet she spoke the truth when she told her father that she would not return to Red House. That she firmly believed; nor could she conceive of any circumstance to change the determination.
Auna struck a new note on the occasion of this visit and she was very frank and clear about it.
"There's always a terrible lot in me I can't say afore grandmother," she declared; "and I don't know whether it's right, or whether it's wicked, mother; but I'm never going to stop loving father and I won't pretend different. Nobody knows how wicked he's been better than poor father does, and his sins properly choke him when he's along with me sometimes. And——"
"Don't you talk about father, Auna. That's forbid and you know it. We've all forgiven each other and you'll understand better some day."
"But he doesn't understand you've forgiven him. Nobody's told him you have. But I shall, now you've said it. And I'm just going to be fifteen year old and I do understand. Father thought you'd done something wicked and that was wicked of him, because he ought to have known very well you couldn't do nothing wicked. But he thought you had so cruel certain, that it all had to be tried by a judge. And then father found out he'd thought wrong; and now his hair be turning grey about it and he can't lift up his head from looking at the ground. And if he knew how to show more sorrow than he does show, he would—I know he would."
"Leave him, Auna. But be sure to tell him I've forgiven him. And say I'm going to drink the milk. And now talk about something different. I bid you, Auna."
"Very well, then, dear mother," said the girl. "Peter be going to the veterinary surgeon to Exeter for six months soon now, to learn all about the sicknesses that come over dogs; and then father says he'll know everything there is to the dogs, and more than he does himself. Though that Peter never will. And Avis—Robert's terrible set on marrying her, and he's coming to ax father if he may do so this very night. But that's a secret hidden from father. And father——"
The child could not keep her father off her tongue.
"Tell me about the dogs and the river and the garden," said Margery.
Auna collected her thoughts.
"The dogs are very well indeed and a lot of new puppies, and 'The Lord of Red House' be the father of them; and Peter says their paws promise them to be grand dogs. And Mr. Middleweek, the new man since Mr. Gill went, is very different from him. He never whines and never says the work's killing him, nor cusses the goats, nor anything like that. And Peter says he's very clever with the dogs, but won't come to no good in the next world, because he haven't found God. But Peter says that what Mr. Middleweek does about the next world is his own business, and he won't quarrel with him as long as he does so clever what he's got to do in this world."
"Peter's a lot with the dogs now?" asked Margery, and her daughter answered that he was.
"And the river's lovelier than ever this year," she ran on—"especially the little island we call 'Mother's Island,' where Avis found that white bluebell. And it came up again this year. And your own garden, mother, is a proper show of flowers. And the roots you planted in the fall have come up, all but one or two. And the red peony seemed to know you wasn't going to be there and he haven't took the trouble to flower at all this year."
She ran on and Margery listened, saying very little but smiling once or twice.
She asked a few questions about trifles that interested her and Auna answered or promised to learn the answers.
Then they joined Mr. Huxam in his parlour behind the shop and took tea together. Auna discussed Jeremy and Jane. She was very interested in their two infant boys and much cast down because the second proved to be delicate.
Margery remembered a book or two and Auna promised to bring them, but Barlow forbade it.
"Not at present," he said. "That would be to create a doubtful precedent. We'd better wait for anything like that, unless the book was yours before you married."
Her grandfather was acutely conscious of the difficulties attending the situation of Auna. Margery's other children continued to be entirely identified with her, and Judith felt satisfied that soon enough they would have broken with the evil influence that begot them; but Auna had developed a decision that remained to be dealt with. She came and went, and not seldom mentioned her father from force of habit, only to be corrected for so doing. Her grandmother already perceived a problem here, but trusted herself to solve it.
When Mr. Huxam had gone and they were alone again, the girl returned to her father.
"I know I mustn't name him to grandfather and grandmother, but just once more you'll let me, mother. Say just once."
"What's the use, child? You must learn to understand that father's gone out of my life. He hasn't gone out of yours. He's part of yours, and I'm glad you love him, because there's only you to do that now. But grandmother's quite right to ask you not to mention father any more here."
"Why?" asked Auna. "Father doesn't tell me not to talk about you. He loves me to do it."
"Anyway you'll do what you're told to do here, I know."
"Very well then—this is the last—last time I'll name him. And if he ever slips out again, it will be an accident, mother. But—the last time, mind—but, don't you think just once—just once, for a little moment, you could see him? You've got such a lot of time on your hands now and you might take a walk and just——"
"Did he ask you to ask me, Auna?"
"Not exactly asked me. He said it would be a great blessing and a sign he was forgiven if you could let him speak to you but once. And I said so it would; and I told him that first time I got a chance, behind grandmother's back, I'd ask you. And oh, mother, why not?"
"For countless reasons, Auna. You'll tell him I've forgiven him. We've long passed the forgiving stage here. Everybody has forgiven father. And what more is there?"
"There's father."
"I mustn't do it. I don't want to do it, Auna. You can't understand yet, but you will when you're older. He will understand."
"You don't want to see father?"
"No, no, no—I don't want to see him again. I've suffered enough."
Auna was very quiet for some time.
"You wouldn't like to come and see your lovely garden, if father promised to go up to Huntingdon for the day?" she asked. "Surely, mother, you'd like to see the dogs and your garden?"
"It's not my garden any more. I've got no garden. I've got nothing but you and Avis and the boys."
Auna tried again.
"How sorry must he feel, before you can forgive him enough to see him?" she asked.
"I have forgiven him. I wish I could make your little mind grasp it, Auna. I know father better than you do. I know how sorry he is; but sorrow can't undo what's done. Nothing could be gained if I saw father, and a great deal must be lost. There are others to think of. We are all in God's Hands. Now you ought to be trotting home."
"God's Hands are cold comfort if you won't see father," murmured the child. "I don't much like what I hear about God from Mr. Middleweek."
Margery reproved her.
"If you want to hear about God, go to your grandmother," she said, "and never listen to anybody else. You ought to know that well enough, Auna."
"I shall always listen to father whenever he talks to me," answered the girl. "And I've told father that I well know God's forgiven him."
She left soon afterwards, very quietly and much depressed, while Margery speculated on the situation and became aware that, against the forces of right and justice and religion, destined to stand between her husband and herself for the remainder of their lives, there would be opposed a girl's will. She saw a time when her daughter would be called to choose; and she was glad that Auna would most certainly fling in her lot with Jacob. She still believed, with her mother, that souls were involved, and, therefore, felt it guilty to be glad.
And Bullstone, knowing that the child might to-day get free speech with Margery, had not slept for two nights until the result of Auna's effort reached him. He had not directed her to do this, but he could not forbid it. The inspiration was hers and he believed that it came from something greater than Auna. He walked to meet her and his heart beat hard as her slight figure came swinging along through the lane beyond Shipley Farm.
She kissed him and he waited for her to speak as they walked homeward together; but she did not speak for a little while. Then she told the best thing she had to tell.
"Mother's going to drink the milk, father."
"Tell me," he answered. "Don't hold it back. Can she see me?"
"No, father."
"Does she want to see me?"
Auna hesitated, then spoke.
"No, father."
Then they walked together quite silently until something happened to distract their thoughts. A quick step overtook them beside the river and Robert Elvin, his day's work done, saluted them.
"Thought I might get over for a bite of supper, Mr. Bullstone, because I was very wishful to have a word or two."
"And welcome, Bob. How's things?"
"All right—all very right I believe. I'd like for you to see the mangolds. The rain have fetched them up proper and the guano be doing wonders. So it is at Bullstone John Henry tells me."
That night after the evening meal, Bob approached his future father-in-law on the great theme and begged to marry Avis within the year.
Robert was a little independent—so his listener thought.
"My mother sees nothing against it and Avis is willing," he said, "so I hope it may happen by your leave, Mr. Bullstone."
Jacob, morbid now in the presence of other people, detected, or imagined that he detected, a changed note in all who accosted him. And often he did do so, for a great weight of censure had rolled in upon him since his error and many derived a sense of personal right doing and right thinking when they said the obvious things concerning him. But the significance of what he had done did not oppress the younger generation since they had no experience of life to weigh its implications. Robert was too busy about his own affairs to trouble concerning the misfortunes of other folk. He had no intention to be anything but respectful.
"If Avis is agreeable, as you say, then so it shall be, Bob," promised Jacob. Indeed the idea had already dwelt in his mind for other reasons than the happiness of young Elvin. In the ceaseless examination of all paths, in the pursuit of every faint thread which might lead to the heart of his hopes, Bullstone had not neglected the matter of his daughter's marriage. For there, if only for a moment in time, he might possibly hope to meet on common ground with the mother of Avis. He told himself that humanity would pardon a natural and seemly meeting on the occasion of a child's marriage. None could protest at that; and while he knew, and smarted to know, that many held his desire—to receive back his wronged wife—as only another offence; while, indeed, brutally faced in certain, unexpected quarters with harsh censure, when he had confided, as he thought, in sympathetic ears; and while consequently driven to lock his hopes out of sight, since they were held shameless, yet in the matter of Avis, he did see an opportunity against which it would be hard to take exception. The girl must marry from her father's home; was it too much to hope that her mother would see a way to come under his roof on the occasion, if only for an hour? By night the possibility seemed to take substance; by day, when his mind was clearer, it faded; and to-night, though he spoke amiably to Robert and promised the wedding should take place after the harvest, he felt less sanguine than usual. He had expected this interview and desired it; he had fancied it would cheer him and bring some hope, but now that it had come, the light was quenched in anticipation by what he had just heard from Auna.
Yet he struck a cheerful note, and it was not Jacob but Avis who viewed the matter differently, and brought him back to the fact that the past was not to be missed even in this matter. Robert called her when he heard that they might wed, and she came into the kitchen, where her father sat, and thanked him. Jacob declared his good pleasure.
"And we'll do it in style I promise you," he said with ill-feigned ardour. "You shall have a good send-off, and a good honeymoon, too, before you start life in double harness."
"And after our marriage, you're going to settle Owley on me, aren't you, father?" asked Avis. "I don't ask for inquisitiveness, but only so as we shall know how we stand."
"Yes, I am. That was a promise. And I'll add this: that I shall waive the rent as soon as ever I see my way clear."
"Not from the start, however?" asked Bob.
"Not from the start—no. Circumstances have called upon me for a good deal of money lately and—however, the future's yours. Whatever else they haven't got, the young have always the future."
Avis looked uncomfortable, feeling that the present was the time to speak concerning details. She was sorry for herself and suffered a disappointment which to one of her nature did not lack for edge. She had dreamed of a very fine wedding indeed, but had been told by her grandmother that any such hope would have to be abandoned. The fact she now declared, and her regret lent unconscious tartness to her speech.
"I can't have a gay wedding, father, and no doubt you know why. You wouldn't have a gay wedding with a death in the house, and what's happened is a long way worse than that."
She repeated a speech that she had heard from her grandmother on the same subject, and Jacob stared, but did not answer.
"That's the worst of a thing like what you've done, father. It don't stop where it belongs, and my wedding's got to suffer with everything else."
Her father flushed, but he restrained himself and she stung on.
"You was always such a man for peace, and now you'll soon have it—that's something."
Then Robert spoke. The ill-temper of Avis was a surprise to him.
"Have done," he said. "I don't want to hear you lecture your father."
He spoke rather sternly and Jacob answered him.
"Better stand up for her, not me, Bob. You'll soon know which side your bread's buttered with my fine Avis. The wedding shall be as she pleases."
Then he left them and they went out into the twilight together, Avis a little alarmed.
She was soon forgiven, for she elaborated her grievance and explained to Robert how the disaster that had overtaken Red House, wrecked not only her mother's life, but cast its shadow over her own. She pretended more than she felt and he consoled her as best he might, for he was much in love and shared her regrets at the passing misfortune, but broke away from it to their own surer future.
"There's a screw loose in such a lot of married people," he said. "Don't think I haven't seen it. It was under my eyes while my father was fighting death. Thank God you and me are different. We know each other's natures down to the quick, and nothing could ever rise up against love like ours."
Elsewhere Jacob mused over his recent experience.
"She's grown up," he reflected. "No doubt a moment in time comes like that, when a man's child, that he still held to be a child, flings off childhood and stands out before him full-fledged man, or woman. And for certain the shock, when it falls, is oftener painful than not."
He considered how this apotheosis of his elder daughter might have hurt him once, though little likely to surprise him. But now it lacked all power to hurt and left him indifferent. She was gone in spirit long ago; and John Henry was gone; and Peter thought more of George Middleweek's opinions than of his. Yet how trivial were these losses and dismemberments now. For life, like the sleight of sun and shadow on hills and valleys, had cast down and lifted up, had transformed the shifting scenery of his existence, so that things before invisible stared out upon him and the old landmarks and comfortable places, the nook and dingle, the blue hill and music-making waters, were obliterated and blotted from the theatre in which he moved. Light glared pitiless where shadows had mercifully spread; gloom threw a pall over what had seemed most stable, most gracious and assured. Did the dogs look at him with the old adoration in their eyes? Was it possible that the miasma he trailed could miss their sensitive nostrils? He often hungered for Huntingdon and the white, squab house under the sycamores; but he put the thought from him as a weakness. Not there homed reality; not there could he perform his penance, or justify the undying hope that still burned up and, with its flickering promise, faintly revived the old images and fought the new darkness that hung heavy upon them.
Now opportunity thrust another into the affairs of Jacob Bullstone—one who never occupied a moment of his own thoughts, but who, none the less, was deeply concerned with him.
Unknown and unguessed by his brother, or his aunt, Samuel Winter's weak brain was suffering a stormy assault and gradually reaching a very dangerous decision on the subject of his brother's wrongs. Affairs that leapt instantly to the zenith in a normal intellect, mounted by slow degrees for him; thus his purpose only matured long after the summits of emotion in other men and women were passed. He had taken the matter of Adam's affront very much to heart, and while scarcely able to appreciate the details or understand their significance, none the less grasped that the master of Red House had done Adam an injury beyond any atonement. He had listened to his aunt's furious comments on the disaster and shared her indignation; he had perceived that, while unspeakable evil resulted from Bullstone's errors, the criminal went unrestrained and apparently unpunished. This he resented. Samuel's theory of justice embraced active retaliation for wrong done, and he held it a grievance that Jacob should be none the worse after his offences. He found the matter fasten on his waking thoughts; and he harboured dreams of a great revenge that should be worthy of the occasion. While the rest of the world had cooled its anger; while even a shadow of regret for both sufferers appeared here and there, doubtfully uttered by a seeing woman or sentimental man, Samuel reached gradually to the climax of his private hate. Bullstone must be struck hard, and from this conviction, all unknown and unguessed, Sammy's faulty wits led him to a still more tremendous conclusion. Long brooding, and a gathering weight of indignation at the injustice of Jacob's escape, decided the crazy creature to destroy him and rid the world of an evil thing. He would kill the enemy as he killed vermin. Thus a grave, physical peril now hung over Bullstone, and there was none to warn him, since Samuel took care that not a whisper of his project should be heard. He had the wit to guess that his brother might condemn it; but believed notwithstanding that, after the event, Adam must be the first to praise.
At this stage in his remorseless progress, chance lent itself to Samuel's purpose and he accepted an opportunity. For once the muddy currents of his intelligence flowed swiftly and he struck, after a fashion more worthy of a knave than a fool.
Jacob Bullstone, exploring every channel and considering each human figure that might be regarded as a link between himself and his wife, had thought of late upon her brother. He had observed that Jeremy now avoided him and, until the present, had not thought to challenge the younger man, or thrust any needless difficulty upon his life; but there came a sudden conviction that through his brother-in-law a possible approach to Margery might be obtained. He yearned to put circumstances before her and had endeavoured to do so by letter; but the letters were returned by the hand of Auna, and when the girl once more visited her mother with messages, she was told very plainly that she must obey former commands and not mention her father again. Failure to keep this order would mean denial of her mother to her.
Bullstone, considering ways and means, desired to furnish Margery with money, and his lawyer assured him that there existed no objection to so doing. He was impoverished himself and knew well enough that his wife would take nothing from him, yet the thought persisted, among other thoughts, and he strove to create from it, if possible, some sort of tie between himself and his partner. He told himself that if once the slenderest thread of communication might be established and recognised, upon that he would build and build, until something vital were accomplished.
Therefore he turned to Jeremy. He did not go to the green-grocer's, but waited a chance meeting, and when that fell out, in a manner very convenient to the purpose, he stopped the other and, to Jeremy's discomfort, insisted on having speech with him. Huxam had been to see some apples with a view to purchasing them on the trees, and he was returning from an orchard in the valley above Brent, when he met Jacob face to face, in a lane, and found it impossible to avoid him. He was hastening past, with his face turned to the ground, when his brother-in-law blocked the way.
"Well met," he said. "I've been wanting half a dozen words with you, Jeremy. I won't keep you. I'll walk along with you."
"Mr. Bullstone," answered the other, "I'd rather you didn't. It's all over between your family and mine, and I earnestly beg you'll not speak to me."
"I must. You must endure it. I suppose you're a just man. I'm not going to say anything on my own account—only on your sister's. She has rights and I have obligations. These must be recognised; but your parents come between me and my duty in that matter and won't listen to me, or my lawyer, though he's tried to make them. They oppose a blank wall to me out of ignorance. Some might say out of malice; but I say out of ignorance."
"What d'you want to rip things up for? It isn't dignified of you to stop me; you ought to know better."
"Dignity don't come into it. Just listen. I've been a good friend to you anyway. You're not going to deny that. Then treat me as an unfortunate man who comes to you quite reasonably and properly, things being as they are. There's much that must be said, and propositions must be heard, and it may be in your power to help Margery to see another opinion than her mother's—not my opinion, but the law's opinion. You understand money and you know what a husband owes his wife, whether he's wronged her or not. I admit everything; I acknowledge everything and none can make me out worse than I am; but I'm human. I want to do what's right, and no Christian ought to deny me the power to do what's right. Everything I've got is my wife's if she will take it. She's living on her father and mother now. They won't even suffer her to have her clothes."