"Are you?"
"Yes, mother. My nature properly calls out for rest. I don't solve the problems of life so easy as I did."
"What's the matter then?"
He did not immediately reply, but changed the subject.
"Have you heard what that man, Jacob Bullstone, has done? He made over Bullstone Farm to John Henry on his twenty-first birthday; and he's going to give Red House and the business to Peter presently."
"Yes—not his work but the Lord's. 'The wealth of the sinner is laid up for the just' in Bible words."
"Now there's only Auna of them four—Margery's children."
"I had very near given up hoping for Auna; but that was wrong. Of all the souls I've helped to bring in this world, Auna's the only doubtful one, and I'm going to fight again in that quarter."
"She cleaves to her father, and he's dragging her up to that den on the moors. A very wrong thing, mother."
"Very wrong, and little hope for Auna till we get her away. The time may come. She's much in my mind."
"I went to Plymouth last week to buy a few odds and ends—not for myself—and I looked in and had a dish of tea with Uncle Lawrence. He's getting a lot older, I find, and a lot less peart than he was. Margery's death hit him very hard."
"No it didn't. He's too steadfast to be hit by the death of a saved soul. He's up home seventy, and his heart is weak, because he lived a very hard life in early manhood following the sea."
"Seventy's nothing for a Pulleyblank. I wonder what he's done with his money, now that poor Margery's gone home."
"I couldn't tell you."
"By rights, me being nearest, I ought to have it."
"He may see it like that."
"I took occasion to tell him that all Margery's children was well provided for—not so mine."
"I don't like this," said Mrs. Huxam. "To be doubtful about your children's welfare is next thing to being godless, Jeremy. You're talking in a very loose sort of way, and to speak, or think, of your uncle's money is indecent."
"Then I'm sorry I so far forgot myself as to do so," he answered at once. "It wasn't for myself; and I'm well able and very willing to look after my own. But there's a cloud. I don't mean Teddy, who will never have the full use of his legs and be a care all his life. He came from God like that, and I can face him according and labour double tides for him if needs must; but I mean a passing thing, though very serious I'm afraid."
"What is it then?"
Again he evaded the great matter and dallied.
"I'll tell you, of course, mother. I'm not a man to run away from trouble. It came over me, strangely enough, in the churchyard, where I went on Sunday afternoon with my sons past Margery's grave. And I properly hate that stone Bullstone has stuck there. It oughtn't to be allowed. And he's set wild plants upon it—just moor weeds. Father's greatly vexed, as well he may be."
"What does it matter? It's a weakness of the weak to garden on graves and fidget over the dust of the dead. Let it go."
"Very different to my brother's grave—so dignified and all that. The face wants a wash: it's gone green, and next Saturday I'll go up and rub it."
Mrs. Huxam had set words from the Wisdom of Solomon on the tomb of her dead son and Jeremy brought them to her mind. She looked back through the years, saw again the sturdy boy, who had died doing his duty, and quoted:
"'He being made perfect, in a short time fulfilled a long time: For his soul pleased the Lord; therefore hasted He to take him away from among the wicked.'"
She kept silence a few minutes, then returned to Jeremy's affairs.
"And what is it that came to you in the churchyard?"
"A very sad shock," he answered. "I did most firmly believe and think, when I followed you and father at the post-office, that I'd come to harbour after all my storms, and was taking up the work the Lord had all along meant me to do. I brought all my strength and a properly prayerful spirit to the great task, and I will say of Jane that she's done her very best from the first and put all she knows into the business. We've been faithful, mother; but the bitter English of it is that faith ain't enough, and work ain't enough, and sleepless thought and care ain't enough—not in a linen-draper's. There's something above all that, and you and father had it, and I and Jane have not. I've fought against the truth and I've not spared myself; but there it is—just the final touch that makes the difference between success and failure. In a word, I've still to find the vital thing I'm made to do. And, as I went through the churchyard, I felt a sudden pang that I was still a wanderer. I wouldn't believe it at first, but Jane's known it for months and I'm very much afraid that father has. There's an inclination in father to be short and sharp with me, and it has given me many a heartache on the quiet. And now, such is the state of my nerves, that weak nature properly drives me out of the shop on many a day when I ought to be in it. The scent of haberdashery has got to be a curse and puts me off my food."
"It was the same with the smell of the greengrocer's."
"Exactly the same," admitted Jeremy, "and I have come to the conclusion that there's only one shop smell I could ever be easy under; and that's a chemist's. Strong and varied though it is, it soothes. I've been into the chemist's a good deal lately—for sleeping medicine. I must sleep, else I shall be ill. And in the chemist's a calm comes over me. And if I was in a position to do it, I'd take up the subject from the beginning, and burn the midnight oil, and qualify to be a chemist with the sweat of my brow. For that's where the Hand points, mother; and the sad thing is that I was never allowed to see it years ago!"
"Your father and me will turn it over," said Mrs. Huxam. She was neither annoyed nor indignant. All her values changed and her judgment proceeded on a modified code when Jeremy was the subject. "This may be meant," she continued. "There are changes in the air. I wouldn't say but what everything will work out pretty much as you might wish."
"I know what happens will be for the best, and if I must stop where I am, I shall bite on the bullet," answered Jeremy. "Life is real, and never more so, it seems, than when you're in sight of forty. But the idea of being a dispensing chemist—it's like a ray of light through the encircling gloom, mother. There's such dignity to it—a learned profession you might say—and such a power of well-doing! And if, in your deep judgment, that was really hidden all along in the far future for me, then I should devote all my spare time to study, and rise up early and late take rest, till I'd mastered its secrets and passed my examinations. And once launched into that, there's no doubt I should be a changed man."
"You'd better try some paraffin oil if your hair's falling out," said Mrs. Huxam.
Jacob Bullstone suffered a mental relapse before the time of his departure and his friends were sore put to it. They restrained his violence with difficulty. He took no thought for himself, endured much physical hardship and wearied his body. The preliminary journeys to Huntingdon were endless and he tramped, or rode, backward and forward needlessly. Sometimes Auna accompanied him, but oftener he went up alone, on each occasion carrying small boxes, or parcels. Only two persons hoped and believed that Bullstone was right in following his impulse. Billy Marydrew held to this opinion and Jacob's younger daughter agreed with him. Auna faced the ordeal of the coming isolation without fear. In his darkest moments her father did not frighten her and she had by long and close application learned how best to calm his spirit and minister to unspoken needs.
William called at Shipley Farm three days before his friend left Red House, that he might see Adam Winter. For Winter was helping with Bullstone's move. He had lent a cart and would drive it, by a circuitous route that a cart might make from the valley to the heights.
"He's growing childish in my opinion," said the farmer. "His rages are much like a boy's; and yet out of them will flash deeper sense than ever he spoke when he was a happy man. I've known the zanies to say very true things. I've heard my own brother do it. Those beyond comfort themselves can often speak a comfortable word for other people."
"A luckless wretch," commented Amelia. "I wouldn't say but he'll do something red before he's finished. He rolls his eyes—a cruel, bad sign—and George Middleweek says there are days when only Auna dare go near him."
"He's wading through deep waters," admitted Winter, "and we people not called to endure such torment must be patient and prayerful for him."
"He cussed God yesterday," said Amelia, "and George Middleweek heard him do so."
"Think nothing of it," urged Mr. Marydrew. "King David and many another noticeable man have done the same and yet been saved alive."
"The Almighty's wrath properly eats up the ungodly," declared Amelia. "And a very solemn and teaching sight it is for us."
"His patience be greater than His wrath, else not a man or woman could escape," answered William.
"He knows the end from the beginning, and stuff meant for the undying fires won't go nowhere else, patience or no patience," asserted Amelia stoutly; while Mr. Marydrew laughed.
"Why, my dear, you'll be so bad as the old witch doctor herself! What the mischief do you know about the Everlasting's bonfires? Or what goes into 'em, or what don't? No doubt 'tis such fierce opinions be making Adam here escape to the Church of England."
"He'll come back," she replied, looking at her nephew. "He'll soon have enough of that."
"Wisdom needn't be at odds with charity," said Adam. "The Son of Man came to seek and to save that which was lost."
"Exactly so—not to burn it," declared Billy. "Think how we look upon some poor, distracted animal, Amelia—a cow that's dropped a dead calf, or a robbed bird. Almighty God have put His finger into Jacob's brain for the minute, but it don't follow He won't take it out again. I say the moors will tame him and bring him peace. And mind, Adam, to be very careful carrying his cuckoo clock up over. The clock belonged to his wife and Auna tells me that the sound have a very kindly effect upon him."
"He made a separate journey with the clock himself," answered Winter. "I rode there Sunday, to try and trace out the cart-track. By good chance it's fairly dry going for the time of year. Huntingdon was a proper old rogues' roost when Veale, the warrener, left; but Bullstone have put in a lot of work and got it all whitewashed and water-sweet. He's going to live a labourer's life—everything plain and simple."
"May he soon go out of it and his poor child get back among civilised people," hoped Amelia. "You can't wish anything kinder for that man than death."
"Don't you forget the big, seedy cake for Auna, however," prompted Adam. "I make my first journey for him mostly with stores. He's laying in a lot of tinned stuff, in case they should be snowed up. And I believe he'd like for that to happen."
The great day came at last and the weather proved unpropitious. A heavy fog descended upon the moors and Middleweek, Peter and Adam Winter all advised Jacob to postpone departure. But he would not. Everything was ready and he determined to go.
"I could make the way blindfolded," he said, "and I'll walk in front, and you can come with the carts behind."
They set forth accordingly and Jacob, who took leave of his home without emotion, led the way. One old dog accompanied him and Auna had begged for more dogs later on.
The procession was soon gulfed in the mist, and long before the party reached Huntingdon, every member of it had become wet through. But Bullstone exhibited an amazing good temper. None present had seen him so cheerful for many days. He made no mistake about the way and when at last the white face of the cottage stared suddenly out of the fog and the naked limbs of the sycamore tree loomed above it, Winter was amazed.
"How you done it I can't say," he assured Jacob; "know the moor as I do, I was lost utterly before we'd gone half a mile."
They lighted a fire and dried themselves, while Peter boiled tea and Auna, at her father's direction, went to her own chamber to change her clothes. Bullstone's first act was to wind up his cuckoo clock. Then they made a meal and ate heartily while the weather grew worse. The fog banks rolled off to the lower ground and heavy rain began to fall. They worked with a will, that Peter, George and Winter might return before night fell. Such furniture as Bullstone had selected for his new home was dragged into the house, where Auna dried it. They made no attempt to order things, but just fetched in the contents of the carts and stacked all in the passage and little chambers.
From above came hammering, for Middleweek insisted on putting up the two bedsteads they had brought. They toiled mightily while the rain beat down and the foul day sank to its close. At four o'clock all was done and the carts started to get homeward in the last of the light.
The partings were brief; indeed Jacob did not say "good-bye" at Huntingdon, for he insisted on returning With them to a certain spot. Once there, a track might be picked up that would bring them to their road. He cared not for the weather, preserved his contented demeanour and expressed very hearty gratitude to Adam, to Middleweek and to his son for their good offices.
He was excited and thanked them all again and again.
"I'll make it up to you," he said. "It's done me a power of good to see what man will do for his fellow-man at a pinch. Don't think I'll forget such fine service. My turn will come to repay."
As they parted he indicated his intentions. It was clear that he proposed no temporary absence from his neighbours.
"Come the spring we shall meet again, no doubt," he said. "I don't want anybody up over for a couple of months or more. And if there are letters for me, show them to George, Peter, and answer them between you as you think fit. I'll open no more myself."
"Us'll get news of you afore that I hope," answered Winter. "You mustn't cut yourself off from your fellow-creatures altogether, Jacob."
"Why should I be up here then, Adam? What have I done this thing for? I've called on the hills to cover me, and they will do their part if I do mine. Good-bye, all; and if there's a God, may He deal gently with you, my son, and you my friends. Keep edging to the right till you make the big rock and the old quarry—then the way's plain."
"And mind you get out of them clothes the first minute you're back," shouted Adam.
"Fear not; I'm outside the power of weather to hurt," he cried. "I've given weather its chance, but the hand of the elements is held from me."
He was gone and the carts, each with a man at the horse's head, splashed onward.
Peter walked beside Adam Winter. A rare flash of emotion had touched the lad, and the events of the day had broken him.
"'Tis a pretty bloody thing to have a father like that and no mother," he said.
"So it is then; but don't be sorry for yourself; be sorry for him, and hopeful for him. He's got a good sensible family, and it's up to you and John Henry to go ahead and make him proud of you. And very like it will be your work to get him back again in time to come."
"Avis thinks that perhaps, when he knows he's got a grandchild, he'll get a bit more nature into him."
"Very like he will. Billy always swears he'll weather it, and he's looked deeper into your father than we can."
At Huntingdon, Auna was exceedingly glad when her father left her alone for a little while. She had been fighting her tears and would have conquered had he remained—at any rate until she had gone to bed and out of his sight; but when he left with the carts, she broke down and wept. She could not have told why, for she had long grown accustomed to her future and in some moods even welcomed it; but the dour day served to impress upon her youth a side of the time to come that made her weak for the moment. She quailed and abandoned herself to tears; yet not for long. Love dried her eyes, and hope that her father would presently win to peace soon made her brave again. She set about preparing a meal and first brought down a complete change of underclothes and socks and a pair of slippers for him. These she put by the fire, but noticed with some concern that the kitchen chimney smoked and flung puffs from the peat into the room. The wind increased and the night darkened in storm. She began to pull the furniture to its places and lifted an enlarged photograph of her mother on to the parlour mantelpiece. Jacob would like to see that when he came in. She heard him presently moving a crate in the yard and saw him dimly through the gloom carrying it to the cart-shed. Then she called him.
"Do come in and change your things, father," she cried from the window.
"Right!" he answered. "I'm just going to give the pony a bite of hay and see he's settling down."
He soon appeared dripping wet and smiling, with his red dog turned to a russet-brown. The creature was downcast. It shook itself, scattered moisture, whimpered and crept to the fire. Auna, now cheerful, took a towel and wiped the dog. Then she left the towel for her father, who had already stripped off his coat and jacket, and bade him get into his warm clothes quickly.
He called her back in twenty minutes and she found that he had obeyed her. He was rummaging in a box of stores for the spirit bottle.
"Four fingers I must drink," he said. "The wet has got into the bones of my neck seemingly."
He swallowed a stiff glass of brandy, and then Auna lighted a lamp and prepared their meal.
"We've come up into a proper gale," said Jacob, "and the harder it blows, the calmer do I find myself, Auna. It'll tire itself out by morning and well have a fine day for putting the things in place."
After the meal he pottered about and cleared the passage, while she brought blankets and sheets from boxes, aired them and busied herself bed-making. She found her father drinking more brandy. He had been in the parlour and he had returned there presently, set a candle on the mantelpiece and stood looking at Margery's photograph. She left him there and turned to settling the crockery on the dresser. Then, an hour later, she returned, to find him still standing motionless in the parlour. The wind shouted and some tar-pitched slates on the roof were chattering as though the house shivered.
Jacob at her call woke from his reverie and came to the fire. He had grown very silent. She pulled up his big arm-chair, and he sat down in it and spread his hands to the red peat.
"Like a death-rattle up over," he said. "We must put those slates right, Margery."
He called her by her mother's name sometimes.
"The house is fine and water-proof," she declared. "There's not a drop got in anywhere."
When the cuckoo cried nine, she made supper with cold meat and bread and jam and more tea.
But Jacob did not want to eat.
"We'll turn in," he said. "We've had a hard day. I hope they got back all right. Do you feel pretty peart?"
"Never better, father. I've hotted a brick for your bed, because you're a thought shivery by the look of it."
"Nought," he said. "Only weariness."
"Your leg don't hurt you?"
"Only terrible tired. Can I do anything more for you to-night?"
"No—you get to bed and I'll soon go too."
The old red terrier slept with Jacob, and his basket was pulled out from a pile of odds and ends and taken up to the bedroom. He crept up after his master—a melancholy dog, strange to his surroundings.
"Poor 'Jacko' will soon settle down," said Auna. "Don't forget to put him a drop of water in the soap-dish, father."
Jacob kissed Auna and went up the little stone stairs to his chamber. He was very stiff.
"Look in upon me the last thing," he said, "and bring me up another drop of drink. Make it hot, there's a dear."
He was suffering from slight rigours when she brought him the liquor but Auna did not observe them.
Auna went early next morning to see her father, and found him sick.
"I'm very bad," he said, "with chills and heats all night, and stiff in knees and ankles and wrists. It's like that burn-gout Billy had, I fear, only it torments all the joints so sharply that I can't bear the bedclothes upon me."
His face told of pain. As yet he seemed more surprised than alarmed that sickness should have fallen so suddenly upon him. He shrank from her touch and feared even her light hand as she pulled the tumbled coverlet.
"Fetch me some hot drink," he said, "and then we'll think what's to be done."
"There's but one thing to do, father, and that's to fetch doctor to you so quick as ever I can."
"I fear I can't get up, Auna."
"Of course you can't. Don't you talk. Your teeth chatter so. I'll put food and drink by you and then get on the horse and go down."
She left him for twenty minutes, made some tea and brought it to him with bread and butter. He could not eat but drank thirstily.
"A beautiful day, father, and the dog's run home. So soon as I let him out this morning, he was off."
Jacob already began to wander.
"That's a bad sign. The dog may know I'm going to die. I hope he's right; but I don't feel as if I was going to die."
"No, no, father. It's only a chill along of being wet through yesterday."
"As to your going down, I don't know. We'd better leave it to Nature. I may take a turn presently."
"I hope you will; but you mustn't prevent me going down. It's your duty to try and get well, father, and a doctor would help you."
"Cousins from the Cottage Hospital then—nobody else. But there's no hurry."
Auna, however, knew that she ought not to lose a moment. The way was long and, at best, it must be several hours before succour could be won.
"Tell me just exactly how you feel, because that will help doctor to know what's overtook you, father."
He explained, but vaguely. She felt that he was in a great fever, and saw that his pain increased.
Presently, to her dismay, he refused to let her go.
"It's come over me that I'm finished," he said. "I believe and hope this may be the beginning of death, Auna. And if that's so, there's no need for you to leave me. I'd little like any other woman to close my eyes. But you must be patient. I'm going to be called to suffer a lot I expect."
For an hour she begged and he denied. Then, to her great joy, she saw a horseman creeping up over the moor in the morning sunshine.
She was sitting beside Jacob with her eyes on the window, when the tiny figure appeared, afar off.
"Father!" she said, "there's somebody coming up over!"
"Bid them be gone, then," he answered. "I only want you."
She left him a moment and ran down. As yet Auna could not tell that the rider was on his way to Huntingdon, but she meant to summon him if possible.
He headed for the Warren House, however, and, while yet he was half a mile distant, she recognised William Marydrew, on his iron-grey pony, and knew that he was coming to Jacob. Immense joy fired Auna at this sight. From an emotion of terrible dread and an inclination to believe that her father would die, she now leapt to hope. No doubt Billy would support her and insist on the doctor being fetched, while he kept the sick man company.
She ran to Jacob with the news.
"Be sure it was ordained for him to come, and it means you are to be saved, dear father," she declared.
At first he was sulky and wished William away.
"'Tis not like him to poke and pry," he said.
But when the old man appeared, proud of his feat in riding up to see them, Jacob welcomed him.
"Don't know which is the most wonderful—you, or your pony," said the sufferer. "Don't touch me, William. I'm in a flame, now cold, now hot, running through my bones; and my heart's beating like a hammer. Something gone wrong and my tongue fills my mouth. I'm hopeful it's the end. But Auna wants the doctor."
"Why, surely. You've catched a fever, Jacob. Put out your tongue. You can always tell by that member if a body's took fever."
Jacob's tongue was very yellow and Auna cried out at the colour. Then William took the girl beyond earshot of her father.
"Get on his horse, because it will go a lot quicker than mine, and go so fast as you safely can to Dr. Cousins. And tell him the symptoms. I don't know what's wrong, but 'tis something pretty large I'm fearing. His eyes roam like a frightened cow's."
Auna was thinking.
"We've got no side saddle, but I handled mother's old clothes only yesterday—her kennel-maid's clothes, which father always kept as a great treasure. Should you say I might put 'em on, or would it be wrong, Mr. Marydrew?"
"'Wrong!' Belike they was spared for this end! Get in 'em so fast as you can, and I'll saddle your hoss. Every five minutes may make a difference."
She returned to her father's room, where such of Margery's garments as he cherished were already stowed in a chest of drawers.
"I be going to get in dear mother's breeches, father, and ride down," she said; but he was talking to himself and did not hear her. She took the old, brown raiment and went to her room. When William had saddled Jacob's horse and brought it to the door, he hitched the bridle to a hook, set there for the purpose, and ascended again to his friend.
"She'll have a good ride," he said, "for the sun's shining and the wind's lost its edge. And I be going to bide with you, my dear, till she fetches back again."
The sufferer was lying on his back looking at the ceiling and deep in thought. He did not heed William's words, but began speaking quickly and coherently for a time.
"I'm glad you've come, because you can listen to what my life has been, William. And you can understand and tell people when I'm dead. No doubt you were prompted to come up for that purpose. If I can hold my mind on it, I'll tell you."
"Don't you fret your wits just now. Keep your strength to fight."
"It's the end, and I'm glad, and I'm glad that you were sent to hear, and nobody else."
He proceeded to attempt an account of his life, but could not. The fever had touched his mind and he rambled in a growing delirium from which no steadfast argument proceeded. William tried in vain to silence him, but he would talk and he had lost all hold on reality when Auna came in to see him before starting. She was tempted not to do so, yet a fear that he might pass away before she returned proved too great for her and she came.
"I'm off now, dear father. Be there anything more for me to remember?"
Bullstone started up and his eyes shone at her.
"Margery! There—I knew she couldn't be far off if I was ill. Don't you fret—it's nothing—just a pinch of poison caught somewhere. Put your cold hand on my head—that's right. Sit down, but don't touch my frame."
He tried to put his arm round her and groaned.
"'Tis like a red-hot knife turning in the elbow and wrist," he said. "Going for a run with the dogs? That's right. Mind the water. Oh, my God, when I saw her in Winter's arms, I thought I'd drop, William. Where's my mother? You'd best to call her to me."
"Let her go then," urged Billy. "Don't you keep her now, she's busy."
Auna rose, but Jacob called her back.
"Wait a minute. Where's my wits? We're married now. I don't want mother. I want you—only you. We're married, William. Damn it, old boy, you was at the wedding. Why are you in the kennel-maid's togs, Margery? I don't like that."
"Quite right," declared the old man, winking at Auna. "You get out of 'em, Mrs. Bullstone, so quick as you can. Let her go, Jacob."
"Not to Adam Winter—not to him."
"I'll come back ever so quick," promised Auna.
But a change had come over her father.
"I see it now. You're dead—you're dead, Margery. You've come because I'm going to die. She's dead, Billy. It was only a wishtness—standing there. She's gone!" he continued, as Auna slipped away. "Did you see her too?"
"I see her very plain and beautiful, Jacob; and don't you worry about it. All's well. Where there is Margery, there is hope—such a hopeful one as her. Just you bide so hopeful as you can and trust yourself to God."
"Didn't she have a message? Where did she come from? Oh, Christ, William, I'm in everlasting torture. Would God put a man in hell before he's dead?"
"Quiet then! Force yourself to lie still and listen to me. I'll do the talking."
"Give me something to drink."
He drank and then he began calling out for Margery.
"Why isn't she here? Where's her place but here? Curse the dogs. Aren't my sufferings more than all the dogs? There's a bit of flint in every woman's heart, and we married men are sure to bruise ourselves upon it soon or late. But I'd never have thought—— To put the blasted dogs before me!"
"She's working for you. She's gone for the doctor, because you're ill."
"The doctor liked her—Briggs, he liked her; but he hated me. I won't have him. He'd kill me."
"She's gone for Cousins—he's all right. He mended your leg, you mind."
Jacob sank into silence presently and the cuckoo clock below struck ten.
"Who's that calling, 'Margery,' 'Margery'? Who is it, William? Not Winter—not Adam Winter now I'm here powerless? I'll strangle him—God judge me—I'll strangle him with these hands so soon as my nature comes back to me!"
"He's all right. 'Tis only the cuckoo clock."
"I've often been tempted to crush it under my feet, William, when it jeered at me in the night season. I've laid awake and heard its cursed note—foul—foul—lecherous—and I've been hard put to it to remain in bed. But it was hers, and I respect all that is hers, though she doesn't respect all that is mine."
"The cuckoo bird means spring. Spring will soon be here, and I shall often ride up over to have a tell, Jacob."
"You're a very wise man; but it is easy to be wise when life goes straight!"
Jacob's mind had returned into the past. He said things that he had often thought.
"A great test of love, if a woman can put her husband's trade higher than her own pleasure and look at it with his eyes. Few do—few do. Margery felt her own life was more interesting than mine, and who shall blame her? We must be ourselves, William, and that's why marriage is a false contrivance. When the childer are come and the love has gone, it's only self-respect that keeps most pairs grinding on together. For character's deeper than love and we must be ourselves. I thought she liked dogs best in the world after me; but, in your ear alone, William, dogs are nothing to her now. She wants to be herself, and she thinks I won't let her; but if I am jealous of her, God is more jealous still. He takes her side against me, William. She's far more to Him than I am, because she believes in Him and I do not. Life can't be a happy thing for her any more—not while I'm alive. Yet for my honour I can't let her go free while I live. You see that, don't you?"
"Leave it, Jacob, and shut your mouth and try to get a bit of sleep. You must keep all your strength to fight the fever, I tell you."
"The old dog has run back to Red House. He wouldn't have gone if he'd thought I was going to live. He knows he'll be masterless presently, and so he's going to try and make new friends before it's too late. But all in vain. When I'm taken, they'll put him away. I stand between him and death. Fear will be on him when he hears Peter and George speak of me in the past—the fear of those that cumber the earth and know it."
"Could you let down a little more drink?"
The old man descended and brought some tea that Auna had left by the fire.
"We must see to some milk," he said. "You'll be called to sup a lot of milk I shouldn't wonder. Now I be going to light a fire in your chamber, because you'll have to keep warm for a long time."
Jacob talked for another hour, then became silent. A peat fire smouldered in his room and he fell asleep while William waited and watched.
Auna came back at last and the ancient went down to her.
"Dr. Cousins is on his way," she said, "and he is pretty sure from what I told him that father's got rheumatic fever; and since it has come on so fierce and sudden, he's a good bit afraid. We must put him in blankets and wrap his joints in cotton-wool. He'll bring physic, and he's going to send up a trained nurse to-morrow. I've fetched the cotton-wool and Peter will ride up so soon as he can with milk and eggs from Red House. Our cow was coming next week, but they'll drive it up sooner now."
"All to the good," declared William, "and you get in your petticoats. Best he don't see you in your mother's clothes again, because it works into his fever."
She obeyed; but when presently Jacob awoke and they got him into his blankets with great cost of pain, he still persisted in his illusion and regarded Auna as her mother. He was dwelling entirely in a time before his children had been born. They wrapped his joints in the warm cotton-wool and he grew calmer; but he would not let Auna out of his sight and spoke to her as a dying man to his wife.
"Everything is yours," he said. "Have no fear for the future; but my mother must be your first call. While she lives, Margery, put her first."
"So I will then," said the girl; "don't you fear. I'll take all care of her."
"A good mother and far-seeing. I wish I'd been a better son, Margery. Break it to her gently that I'm going. It's bound to be a shock. But she's had worse."
When the doctor came he spent an hour with Bullstone and gave him medicine that relieved him.
"It's going to be a short fight," he said to Auna presently. "We shall know in a very few days if he will live or die. An attack may last weeks, but in your father's case the turning point will be pretty soon. His lungs are all right and, so far, his heart. In young people the heart often fails under the sudden strain; but at your father's age, this may not happen. You must be hopeful, but not very hopeful, Auna. You'll do just as I say to-night, and Nurse Woolcombe will be up early to-morrow. Keep his mind at rest all you know. He may be quick to respond to the remedies. I think he will be; and, if he is, his pain will pretty soon be less. But he is older than his age and trouble has reduced his vitality. Don't cross him in anything; but make him take his medicine and the liquid food."
"D'you think he'll be spared, Dr. Cousins?" she asked.
"I won't answer that to-night. To-morrow, perhaps, I shall be better able to. Keep up your pluck. You used to do him more good than anybody when he broke his leg; and so you will again. He won't know people for a bit, I expect; and he may say all sorts of wild things while he's off his head; but you mustn't mind."
"He thinks I'm mother."
"Let him. Humour him and watch him like a hawk to-night. To-morrow, when nurse comes, you must turn in and have a long sleep. Mr. Marydrew's going to stop till to-morrow. Don't let him smoke in your father's room though. Now I must be off, or I shall lose myself."
He rode away just as Peter arrived on a pony with full baskets. The lad did not see his father, but learned all there was to know.
"He's going to die I should think," he said.
"Not if Auna and me can keep him alive," promised William, "and be it as 'twill, a few days must pass before doctor can settle. The fever took him like a tiger and he'll fall, or conquer, afore Sunday."
"Let John Henry and Avis know first thing to-morrow," begged Auna, and her brother promised to do so.
"Will you look at him? He's asleep for the minute."
But Peter declined.
"Can't help him for me to look at him," he said. "I'll get going. We'll send up some more milk and sago to-morrow and hurry 'em about the cow. Be the stove all right?"
"It is," she answered. "It works very well, now the wind's changed, and the fire-grate in his room draws very suent too."
An hour later Jacob woke in delirium. He shouted loudly and they hastened to him.
Fever had peopled the little chamber with monsters based on the real.
"Drive 'em out—where they belong! Drive 'em out—that flock of little women, with black wings and white faces and eyes as hard as stone! They're women—not birds, though they do fly and make the wind whistle, like a flock of starlings. A starling isn't much of a gentleman, but he'll get into heaven before they do—before the little women, because they're all on the pattern of Judith Huxam, the damned. You didn't know she was damned—did you? But I know it and hell knows it."
"Hush, Jacob—don't you talk foolishness," begged Billy; but the sick man knew him not. He turned to Auna.
"Can't you help me? Can't you do anything? If I move a finger it's like dipping it in molten fire. I'm burning alive, and my own wife won't put the flame out. God do so to you, Margery!"
William sighed.
"Us be going to have a parlous night with the poor man," he said. "When do he take his physic again?"
"Half after seven, Mr. Marydrew."
"Well, see if he'll lap a drop of milk. Thank God your dear father won't be violent except in words, Auna, because it hurts him a darned sight too much to move. We've got him there."
Jacob shouted and they saw that he was drowned in sweat. They ministered to him and presently he grew calmer again. After he had drunk the medicine, William stopped with him and Auna went down to prepare a meal. In another hour Jacob had become unconscious again and the girl and old man ate hastily together below.
"Us must face a stormy night, my dear," said William; "but 'twill pass, however long. Fetch up a good lot of peat, and keep the hot milk and the sago pudden down here; and trust me, if your eyes close, to be on the watch."
"They won't close," promised Auna.
"I've stopped the cuckoo clock," explained William, "because the noise vexed him. We'll be still as death to-night, for silence is physic in itself."
He ate and drank and she bade him take a stiff glass of spirits and water.
"You've done wonders, and I'll never forget it, and no more will father when he's well again," declared Auna. "You smoke your pipe now and have a rest down here, and I'll fetch up the easy, wicker chair, so you'll sit up there comfortable. But you mustn't smoke in his room, Mr. Marydrew."
She went out presently, to feed the ponies, while William lit his pipe, with an ear cocked lest the sufferer should wake.
"Dark and still, and a fox barking far ways off," said Auna when she returned.
Jacob did not wake till nearly midnight and then they wrestled with him for an hour, but made him take his food and physic. He was in agony, yet his mind seemed a little clearer and he restrained himself. Then fever dreams swept over him. Under the light of the shaded lamp, hidden in a corner, he could see his daughter, and still he believed her Margery; but Margery come from beyond the grave. He thought his wife's spirit was beside him and the belief acted as an anodyne.
"Say you've come for me! Say you've come for me! Say you are going to forgive me and fetch me home!" he cried. And then Auna saw that he wept; so she bent over him and wiped away his tears. Her own fell, too, and when he had lapsed again into insensibility, she crept away and sobbed silently in a corner. This happened in the dead of the night and William, despite his resolutions, was sound asleep beside the fire at the time. She was glad that he slept and had not seen her cry.
She pulled herself together and took heart, mended the fire and sat alert between the two unconscious men while the long night drained away.
Jacob did not waken until four o'clock, with a shout that brought William to his feet.
"Dang my old wig, if I haven't had forty winks," he said, "why for did you let me drop off, Auna?"
A trained nurse arrived before noon on the following day and Dr. Cousins drove her up. The physician found that Jacob was responding to his remedies and no special symptoms of any gravity had appeared. The disease promised to run its course, but whether it would destroy the patient remained to be seen. He was dangerously ill and still delirious. Jacob could not state his case, but the doctor inclined to hope that he suffered less of acute pain. He assured Auna that she had every reason to be hopeful and the nurse, at a later hour in the day, declared the same. She was chiefly concerned with the sick man's reserves of strength and, seeing his powerful frame, felt sanguine.
William went home on his pony after the doctor's visit, and an hour later John Henry and Peter came up together, bringing fresh milk and other comforts. They did not see their father, but they stopped with Auna for an hour or two and spoke of the Huxams.
Great decisions had been made and their grandparents were returning to the post-office, while Jeremy and Jane would occupy the new house for the present, until the time came to let it furnished for the summer.
John Henry now saw through his uncle and spoke scornfully of him.
"A worthless waster—that's all he is—and no good for anything. All talk and smiles and fine manners; and under 'em nothing. He ain't got any brains and he ain't got any guts; and everybody in the land knows it but grandmother."
"Does she like going back?" asked Auna.
"Yes—else she wouldn't go. I believe she's been at a loose end ever since she left the shop. She hates doing nothing and being waited on. It's contrary to her nature, and she's been very queer lately and frightened grandfather off and on. She'll be jolly glad to get back into the midst of things, and so will he. There's a lot of work in 'em both yet and it's good for their money and for the rest of the family that they're going back. There wouldn't have been any business left if Uncle Jeremy had messed about there much longer."
"To think we thought him such a wonder when we were little!" said Peter.
"When you get up to be a man yourself, you soon see what most men are worth," answered John Henry. "He'll never do anything and, if his children are like him, they'll all go in the workhouse soon or late; and if they're workers, then he'll live on them come he grows old."
Auna asked after her sister and heard that she was well. Then the brothers departed and Peter promised to return ere long.
"In about three days Nurse Woolcombe says we shall know for certain if father's going to live," Auna told them; "but I know now. I'm positive sure he's going to live."
"'Tis doubtful if it would be a good thing," declared John Henry. "I speak for himself, of course. I'm sure nobody wants him to die."
"It will be the turning point for father perhaps," thought Peter. "He might quiet down after a shaking like this."
Jacob Bullstone suffered for many days and it was a fortnight before Auna could find herself sleeping natural sleep and waking without dread. The sick man mended and fell back again. His strength wore down and a first relapse found him in the gravest danger, for his heart was weary. But he pulled up again with devoted nursing and skilled attention. To Auna, Nurse Woolcombe became as a goddess, and she sealed a friendship with the widow that lasted for life. They worked together and the younger was skilful and understanding.
The head symptoms continued distressing and Bullstone lapsed into delirium on several occasions after periods of sanity. His temperature puzzled the nurse and she strove to distract the patient's mind from himself. But, for a time, he continued impatient and declared that no friendly hand would have desired to prolong his life. Then he grew more reasonable, and when the crisis was past and his sons were permitted to see him, while secretly amazed at the sight of the pallid and shrunken ghost they called their father, both found him peaceful and in a frame of mind they hardly remembered.
His face was white and a growth of beard also helped to disguise the countenance they knew; but his great, dark eyes no longer roamed restlessly over them. They were dimmed by much pain, yet they were gentle and steady. He spoke little and his voice had weakened to a whisper; but he listened and nodded affirmation. His chief concern was with Avis.
"Is her child born?" he asked thrice, at intervals.
"The child's due," said John Henry, "and she's very well, so Bob tells me."
He looked up at the great lads solemnly.
"John Henry and Peter," he said—"my two sons come up to see me. That's good."
"And lots to show you when you're about again, father. You'll be surprised at 'Red House Rover's' new puppies."
"The old dog ran home. He thought I was going to die; but he didn't bargain for doctor and Auna. They've saved me I suppose."
"The Lord of Hosts have saved you, father," declared John Henry, who had great faith in his God.
"Believe it if you can," said Jacob.
They spoke of the Huxams, but found him not interested.
"Is the child of Avis born?" he asked again.
They left him and told Auna that they were well pleased and that he had been kind to them.
"He won't die now; but I expect he'll be a bed-lier for evermore. You've got to face that, Auna," said John Henry.
"So long as he lives till he's at peace, nothing else matters," she answered. "But he'll be better than a bed-lier. Nurse says he'll walk in a month and get back his nature mighty quick, when he can eat strong food again."
Jacob mended slowly and the weather held against him, for the spring was harsh and chill. The light increased with the cold and early March found snow on the moors and a harsh spell of wind from the north-east. The doctor begged Jacob to return to Red House, that his cure might be hastened; but this he declined to do. He was calm and patient now, though very weak. He liked to be alone and he expressed a great desire to see William Marydrew.
Then came good news and Auna had the joy of telling him.
"Avis has got a girl baby, father; and 'tis a beautiful, perfect little child with Bob's eyes. And Avis is doing well and the baby's going to be called 'Margery.' And Margery Elvin's a pretty name Nurse Woolcombe says; and so it is."
The news did Bullstone good service and occupied his mind.
"The name of 'Margery' will be upon my tongue again," he said, "and I must school myself to speak it and hear it, Auna. I shall be very glad to see the little creature. You're worthy to be your mother's daughter, and that's the highest praise you'll ever get from human lips. And may the child of Avis be worthy to be her granddaughter."
Auna felt very happy.
"It never rains but it pours, father," she said. "I've had a letter to-day—a letter from Great-Uncle Lawrence Pulleyblank. His writing's gone very spindley and up and down, because he's so old; but when you're equal to it he wants you to travel to Plymouth for the sea air; and if you won't go, then he wants for me to go, when you can spare me for a week or two."
"Wishful for me to go?"
She began to speak, but stopped, since her words would have to deal with the incidents of her mother's death.
"I dearly hope you'll do it when you can."
"No, no; but thank the man. You shall go to him. I won't be so selfish about you as I have been. I've kept your light under a bushel too long, because you were all I had left. Others must share you, I reckon. You're pale as a davered rose through so much nursing. You shall go presently and make a good holiday with the old chap."
He asked constantly for William, and hoped that each fine day might bring him.
"I've got a wonderful thing to tell him, that only such a man would understand," he explained to Nurse Woolcombe.
They concealed the fact that Mr. Marydrew had been ill with bronchitis.
Then Auna went to see him and was able to tell her father that Billy had returned to health, after a chill.
"He's all right and is coming up the first soft day in May," she promised.
Jacob himself began to regain strength, and there fell a morning when Auna went to Brent to bid a barber climb to Huntingdon and shave him.
"He's a proper ghost, and you mustn't be frightened, Mr. Prynn," she said; "but he's going on all right, and now he's wishful to have his beard away."
Yet, before the barber came, Jacob changed his mind again.
"I'll wear it for a sign," he said. "I'll let it be."
At last William arrived and Jacob greeted him with affection. The old man and Auna sat one on each side of his chair and Auna held her father's hand.
"I'm going downstairs again next week," explained Jacob. He was sitting by the fire.
William expressed great pleasure at his appearance,
"A far different creature from what I left," he said. "Then you was a burning, fiery furnace, my dear. But now you be glad for a bit of fire outside yourself. Can you catch heat from it?"
"And you—you've been bad, too, I'm vexed to learn."
"Only the tubes," explained William. "My tubes was filled up, so as I had to fight for air a bit; but us old oaks takes a lot of throwing. I'm good for another summer anyway. Spring's afoot down the vale."
"I've had great thoughts in the shadow of death, William. I've come through, as you see, and shall live a bit longer. At death's door I knocked and they wouldn't let me enter in. You can't get so close, though, without learning many things. Yet I wouldn't be without what I know. It points to peace—a withered sort of peace, where no hope is."
"You can't live without hope, my dear man. It's so needful as the air you breathe."
"Yes, you can live without it; you can do your duty without it. I heard a laugh yesterday night—'twas myself. Nature made me laugh, because to be without hope is almost beyond reason, and anything outside reason makes us laugh."
William regarded him doubtfully.
"I thought to find you'd thrown over all these silly fancies," he said. "You must keep a hand on yourself, Jacob, now you've come through and are going to live. It's bad to laugh when there's nothing to laugh at. You mustn't do that. Emma Andrews laughed for three days; and she went down to the river and drowned herself on the fourth."
"I'm all right. Between ourselves, Billy, I had bats in the belfry for a time after my wife died. I know it now and I'm surprised that none marked it. After the trial came a great flash of light to my mind. From within it came and made all the past look dark—burned it to dust and cinders. Only the future mattered, and it wasn't the judge and jury showed me I had been wrong—it wasn't them at all. It was the flash of light. Then hope got hold on me like a giant and I hoped too much. That was my punishment—to hope too much and not see hope had died. But my sickness has drained the poison out of me, and though my frame is weak, my brain is clear. I see and I can put things together. I've come to a great thought—a shattering thing but true."
"A comforting thing then."
"No—truth is seldom comforting. But it puts firm ground under you and shows you where to stand and how to protect yourself against hope. I'm a well-educated man, William, and though I've fallen far below all that I was taught as a boy, I've risen again now. But life's too short for most of us to learn how to live it. Too short to get away from our feelings, or look at it all from outside. But I can now. I've reached to that. I can look at myself, and skin myself, and feel no more than if I was peeling a potato."
William began to be uneasy.
"Leave yourself alone. Have you seen your granddaughter yet?"
"No; but my heart goes out to her. Don't look fearful: I'm all right. I haven't done with my children, or their children. I'm human still. I can take stock of myself, thanks to my forgotten wisdom—lost when Margery died, and found again. A bit ago I was growing awful cold. I felt not unkindly to the world, you must know, but cold was creeping into me, body and soul. I didn't love as I used, nor hate as I used, nor care as I used. I didn't want to see what I couldn't see, nor do what I couldn't do. All was fading out in a cold mist. Then I had my great illness, and there was no more mist, and I began to link up again with the world. Nothing could have done it but that. And then I got the bird's-eye view denied to most of us, but reached by me through great trials.
"For look at it, Billy. First there was my faulty nature and little experience. No experience of life—an only son, kept close by loving parents—and with the awful proneness to be jealous hid in me, like poison in a root. Then fate, or chance, to play trick after trick upon me after marriage and build up, little by little, the signs of my great, fancied wrong. Signs that another man would have laughed at, but proofs—deadly proofs of ruin to my jaundiced sight. And the cunning, the craft to heap these things on my head—all shadows to a sane man; but real as death to me! First one, then another—each a grain of sand in itself, but growing, growing, till the heap was too heavy for me to bear.
"And whose work was it? 'God' you say, since He's responsible for all and willed it so. God, to plan a faulty man and start him to his own destruction; God, to make me love a woman with a mother like Margery's, so that, when the wounds might be healed, there was that fiend ever ready and willing and watchful to keep 'em open. God, to will that I should never hear my wife forgive me, though she had forgiven me; God, to let her die before I could get to her and kneel at her feet!
"No, William, a tale like this leaves a man honest, or else mad. And I'll be honest and say that no loving, merciful, all-powerful Father ever treated his children so. Mark how calm I am—no fury, no lamentation, no rage now. Just clear sight to see and show the way of my downfall. Your God could have given me a pinch of fine character to save me. He could have made me more generous, more understanding of my pure wife, less suspicious, less secret, less proud, less mean. He could have built me not to head myself off from everything and bring back night and ruin on my head. But no.
"We'll allow I got all I deserved—we'll confess that as I was made cracked, I had to break. But what about Margery? Did she get what she deserved? Did she earn what she was called to suffer—a creature, sweet as an open bud, to be drawn through dirt and horror and things evil and foul to early death? Was that the work of the all powerful and all just?"
"Always remember there's the next world, Jacob."
"Can fifty next worlds undo the work of this one? Can eternity alter what I did and what she suffered here? The next world's no way out, William. The balance isn't struck there, because evil never can turn into good, either in earth, or heaven. You can wipe away tears, but you can't wipe away what caused them to flow. And where have I come to now, think you? Another great light I've seen, like the light that blazed to Paul; but it blazed a different story to me. When I see a man praising God, I'm reminded of a mouse that runs to hide in the fur of the cat that's killing it. I no longer believe in God, William, and I'll tell you why. Because I think too well of God to believe in Him. D'you understand that? I wish He existed; I wish we could see His handicraft and feel His love; but let us be brave and not pretend. The sight of my little life and the greater sight of the whole world as it is—these things would drive God's self into hell if He was just. He'd tumble out of His heaven and call on the smoke of the pit to hide Him and His horrible works. And so I've come to the blessed, grey calm of knowing that what I suffered there was none to save me from. It's a sign of the greatness of man that he could give all his hard-won credit to God, William, and invent a place where justice would be done by a Being far nobler, finer, truer and stronger than himself. But proofs against are too many and too fearful. The world's waiting now for another Christ to wake us to the glory of Man, William, because the time has come when we're old enough to trust ourselves, and walk alone, and put away childish things. We deserve a good God—or none."
The ancient listened patiently.
"Your mind is working like a river—I see that," he answered. "But be patient still, Jacob. Keep yourself in hand. You'll find yourself yet; you be on the right road I expect; and when you do find yourself, you'll find your God was only hid, not dead."
He uttered kindly thoughts and they talked for an hour together. Then Auna and William descended to the kitchen and he ate with her. He was happy at what he had seen rather than at what he had heard.
"Forget all your father says," begged William. "He's going to be a strong and healthy man. I mark the promise in him. A great victory for doctor and you and nurse. There's a bit of fever in his mind yet; but the mind be always the last to clean up again after a great illness. His talk be only the end of his torments running away—like dirty water after a freshet."
"Do you think, if we could get him down to see Margery Elvin christened, it would be a useful thing, Mr. Marydrew?" asked Auna, and William approved the idea.
"By rights he ought to go to Church and thank God for sparing him," he said. "But, be that as it will, if he saw his grandchild made a faithful follower and heard a hymn sung out and the organs rolling, it might all help to do the good work."
"I'll try to bring it about, though it may be a very difficult thing to manage," she said.
"You make a valiant effort," urged William, "and tell your sister to hold over the event till her father's man enough to come down and lend a hand."
He returned to Jacob before he left Huntingdon.
On a day six weeks later, Jacob went down among men and, at the desire of his children, attended the baptism of his grandchild. The families assembled and the time was afternoon on Sunday. All interested, save Judith Huxam, were present, and after the ceremony ended, a little company trailed up the hill to Owley, that they might drink tea together and cut the christening cake. Avis and Auna walked side by side and Auna carried the baby; while behind them came Peter, Robert Elvin and his mother. John Henry had joined his Aunt Jane Huxam and her little boys; Jeremy and Adam Winter followed them and Jacob Bullstone, with Barlow Huxam, walked fifty yards in the rear. They talked earnestly together and Barlow had the more to say.
He was full of great anxieties, yet did not fail to express regret at his son-in-law's illness and satisfaction that he had been restored to health.
"A triumph for your constitution and the doctor's skill. I've thought upon you and not left you out of my prayers," he said.
"Yes; I've come through; and it was worth while. Time will show," answered Jacob.
"A thoughtful moment, when first you see yourself as grandfather," commented Barlow, "and still more so when you've only got to wait till a little one can talk to hear yourself called 'great-grandfather.' That's how it is with me now."
"How d'you find yourself taking up the reins at the post-office once again?"
"The power is still there, thank God," answered Mr. Huxam. "But time don't stand still. Life goes pretty light with me, but in confidence I may tell you it doesn't go so light with my wife. You don't understand her and I don't expect you to do it, Jacob; and she don't understand you; but you've been through heavy waters; you've brought forth deep things out of darkness, in Bible words, and I may tell you that all's not right with my wife. She was a bit cheerfuller at first, when we went back into harness and let Jeremy and his family go to the residence, but it was a flash in the pan. Judy's brooding again and speaking in riddles, and I'm much put about for the future—the future here below I mean—not in the world to come."
Bullstone spoke quietly of his own thoughts on the subject of his mother-in-law.
"I've hated your wife with a deadlier hate than I thought was in my nature," he said. "But not now. Before I had my great illness, I always hoped to see her face to face once more and have speech with her; because I was much feared of a thing happening, Barlow. I'd meant to see her alone and warn her, by all that she held sacred, to play fair if she got to Margery before I did. Such was my blinded sight, then, that I thought it might lie in her power, if she went on before, to poison my wife's mind in heaven, as she did on earth, so that if I came I'd still get no forgiveness. But that was all mist and dream and foolishness, of course. If there was a heaven, there would be no bearing false witness in it. But there's no heaven and no meetings and no Margery. It's all one now. Things must be as they are, and things had to be as they were, because I'm what I am, and Judith Huxam is what she is."
"A very wrongful view," replied Huxam. "But, for the minute, your feelings are beside the question, Jacob, and I'm not faced in my home with any fog like that, but hard facts. And very painful and tragical they may prove for me and all my family. You'll understand that she never could forgive the fearful day we journeyed to Plymouth—you and me; and she held that I'd gone a long way to put my soul in peril by taking you there to see your dying wife. That's as it may be, and I've never been sorry for what I did myself, and I don't feel that it put a barrier between me and my Maker. But now the case is altered and I'm faced with a much more serious matter. Judy don't worry about me no more and she don't worry about any of us, but, strange to relate, she worries about herself!"
"I've heard a whisper of it."
"You might say it was the Christian humility proper to a saint of God; but this mighty gloom in her brain gets worse. Once, between ourselves, it rose to terror, at half after three of a morning in last March. She jumped up from her bed and cried out that Satan was waiting for her in the street. That's bad, and I spoke to Dr. Briggs behind her back next day."
"Her religion was always full of horrors, and the birds are coming back to roost."
"That's a very wrong view and I won't grant it," answered Barlow.
"Who can look into the heart of another? Who can know the driving power behind us?"
"It's not her heart: it's her poor head. Briggs is watching over her and he don't like it any more than I do. There's a well-known condition of the human mind called 'religious melancholy,' Jacob; and it's a very dangerous thing. And it's got to be stopped, or else a worse state may over-get her."
"She looks back and mourns maybe? Perhaps it's only her frozen humanity thawing with the years."
"She don't look back. Never was a woman less prone to look back. She looks forward and, owing to this delusion of the mind, she don't like what she sees and it makes her terrible glum. Her eyes are full of thunder, and her voice is seldom heard now."
"We reap what we sow."
"Not always. She's walked hand in hand with her God ever since she came to years of understanding, and it's a hard saying that such a woman deserved to lose her hope and suffer from a disordered mind."
"It's not a disordered mind that loses hope, Barlow—only a clear one. Hope's not everything."
"Hope is everything; and if the mind weakens, then the life of the soul stops and there's nothing left but an idiot body to watch until its end. I've got to face the chance of Judy's immortal part dying, though her clay may go on walking the earth for another twenty years; so you'll understand I'm in pretty deep trouble."
"It may not happen."
"It may not. But I'm warned."
Jacob expressed no great regret, for the things that now entered his mind he could not, or would not, utter.
Mr. Huxam pursued his own grey thought.
"Sometimes it happens that these people who are overthrown by religion, by the dark will of their Creator, have got to be put away from their friends altogether; because too much religion, like too much learning, topples over the brain."
"Perhaps it's only conscience pricking her."
"In a lesser one it might be that; but to hear such a woman as her wondering in the small hours whether, after all, she is redeemed, that's not conscience—it's a breakdown of the machinery. 'Could I lose my own soul by saving Margery's?' she asked me once, and such a question of course means a screw loose."
Bullstone did not answer and Barlow presently feared that he might have said too much. He sighed deeply.
"Keep this from every human ear," he begged. "I may be wrong. There may be a high religious meaning in all this that will come to light. We must trust where only we can trust."
"You'll find where that is, if you live long enough and suffer long enough," was all the other answered.
A cheerful spirit marked the little celebration at Owley and, for the first time, Jacob held his granddaughter in his arms. He had brought a gift—a trinket of silver with a moonstone set in it—that he had purchased before their marriage for Margery.