"What did you mean about Huntingdon being good for health and peace, Jacob?" she asked. "I didn't like to say anything before those people. But you don't mean you feel your health frets you? You're all right?"
"Right enough. We breathe the same air in the valley as they do on the hill. I didn't mean health of body. I'm so hearty that I don't know my luck in that respect, or guess what it would mean to be otherwise. Health of mind is what I meant. A man's mind often gets sick."
"Not yours I'm sure."
"Don't say that, because you're not sure. Who should know that my mind often falls sick better than you do? And I've found one healing thing, and that's solitude."
"Surely to God you're solitary enough?"
"You don't know the meaning of solitude," he answered, "because you've never tried it."
"'Never tried it!' What's my life?"
"You imagine your life's lonely and even such loneliness as ours—so to call it—casts you down and makes you miserable. Solitude is no physic for you, and I dare say, if we lived in a town, you'd be a happier woman."
"I'm not lonely really—I know that. Life's a bustling thing—even mine."
"Company is your food and my poison," he answered. "That's how it is. Loneliness—what I call loneliness—is as much beyond my power to get, as company—what you call company—is beyond your power. We've made our bed together and must lie upon it."
"You ought to have thought of that sooner, if you wanted to be a hermit, for ever out of sight of your fellow-creatures."
"We've made our bed," he answered, "and what we've got to do is to keep our eyes on the bright side. Nobody's life pans out perfect. My idea of a good time would be a month at Huntingdon all alone."
"That wasn't your idea of a good time when you married me; and if you say that, it only means I've changed you and made you hunger for what you never wanted before you married."
"You needn't argue it so, Margery. I might as well say that you were happy with me at Red House long ago, and didn't want anybody else but me. Life changes our tastes and appetites; life laughs at us, while it makes us cry sometimes. I want Huntingdon for contrast, because home often comes between me and my best thoughts—because home often fouls my thoughts, if you must know. And you—home makes you hunger for change—change—new ideas—new voices—new faces. Why not? I don't blame you. We are both smitten and must bend to the rod."
"If you see it so bitter clear, perhaps you could alter it," she said.
"No, no. We can't alter it. I can't be different; you can't be different. It would only be pretending to alter, and pretence could bring no content to either of us. But time—time may make us different. We'll grow numb as we grow old."
Margery was indignant. She restrained tears with difficulty.
"I've prayed for a lot of things," she said. "I never thought to pray to grow old."
"Changes are coming," he replied. "The children will go out into the world."
"Then perhaps you'll have a little of the peace you thirst for."
"I'm too selfish ever to get peace," he replied. "That's the crux and curse of loving a woman as I've loved you. Love and peace can't walk together. You don't understand that. No matter. It only means that if half of you is getting what it wants, then the other half cannot. The knot is there. We can't be happy together, and it's still more certain I can't be happy apart. But you could. That's the difference."
"And you think I might be happy, knowing you weren't? Why d'you say that? What have I done to sink below you in love?"
"I don't know—I wish I did," he answered.
"And you spend your whole life trying to find out," she retorted. "And so you waste your life, because there's nothing to find out."
Occasionally, in moments of indignation, she had accused him thus before; and now that happened which had previously happened on such challenges. He said not another word.
At the kennels he stopped and turned away, while she followed her children to the house.
John Henry, Avis and their mother had come on a Sunday, to drink tea with Margery's parents and go to chapel afterwards.
There was trouble in the air; indeed Mr. Huxam, who happened to be ailing, declared that he never remembered so many problems demanding solution at one time. When he was indisposed, he always dwelt on the blessings of retirement and declared that the 'villa residence' he designed to build for his declining years should now be erected.
"I feel it borne in upon me very much of late that we ought to begin," he told Margery, and she agreed with him.
"Jacob's always saying you should start. Not a week ago he was telling me that his bit of land on the north side of the railway ought to suit you down to the ground."
"I've let the chance slip," declared Barlow, coughing and patting his chest. "If I'd been awake, I should have purchased a site ten years ago; but what with one thing and another—chiefly Jeremy—I never seemed to have the necessary dollop of money."
"It wasn't that," argued Mrs. Huxam. "Jeremy, though he hasn't found the exact work yet, can't be said to have cost much in money, if he has in thought. I always warned against looking too far ahead touching the villa residence. But now I do think the time has come."
"'Peace with honour' is what you and me have a right to," answered Barlow, "and if Jacob, among his possessions down this way, has got an acre or thereabout, to please your mother, Margery, so much the better. I want to see the house started."
"Jeremy's really going," Margery told them; but it was no news. Indeed his mother knew more than she.
"I won't speak about the past," she began, "though I haven't heard anybody say that Jeremy failed as huckster, or Jane to market. But now, with a family on the way, the circumstances are changed. So like as not Jeremy will come into Brent and take over Michael Catts' little business—the green-grocer's."
"Leave Owley Cot?"
"Yes. It hasn't suited him too well and he's a good bit cut off from religion up there."
"What changes!" murmured Margery. "Jacob says that Joe Elvin is going down hill rather quick. His health's giving out. In fact Jacob's beginning to look round already for a new tenant, if it must be. Just now we've got distemper in the kennels and he's lost some valuable young dogs."
"I hope he's taking it in a Christian spirit then," answered Judith. "He's had an amazing deal of good fortune in his time, by the will of God, and such men are often a great disappointment under affliction."
"He's vexed, of course, but he doesn't whine about it. You'll never see him cry out if he's hurt."
"His steady luck has not hurt Jacob, as luck is apt to do," said Barlow. "He keeps an even front."
"But he's not sound and commits himself to a very doubtful thought sometimes," replied Mrs. Huxam. "A jealous God reads every heart, Margery, and won't suffer no looseness in matters of doctrine."
"He does nothing but good—a very honourable and upright man, and more than that," said Margery. "You must be all right if you make the world happier than you find it."
"It is your place to stand up for him," returned Judith, "and, in reason, a wife ought to say the best she knows of her husband; but actions may spring from all sorts of motives. Good actions may arise from bad motives, owing to the ignorance and also the devious cunning of men and women. All we've got to cling to is the Light, and if a man shows the Light doubtfully, then, however he may seem to shine, we can't be sure of him."
Margery had concealed from her parents the gap that existed in understanding between Jacob and herself. Her father cordially approved of him; her mother had ever expressed herself as uncertain. Now her daughter declared surprise at this fact.
"I've always got to champion Jacob against you," she said. "But I should have thought you'd have been the first to see his qualities. He's like you in a way—don't care for pleasure, or company, and keeps a guard over his lips, and works morning, noon and night. If Jeremy had been like that——"
Mrs. Huxam was not annoyed.
"You can't see all round the human character as I can, Margery," she answered, "and I don't blame you, because such a bird's-eye view only comes with years, and between husband and wife it often never comes at all. What the deep eye looks to is the foundations. In Jeremy's case I laid the foundation, being my work as his mother. And in your case I laid the foundation also. Jeremy has a character that you might call weak, and without religion he would very likely have brought our grey hairs with sorrow to the grave—if I was that sort of woman, which I am not. But the foundation is there, and as for the building, though it ain't very grand to the eye yet, that's the Lord's business. Jacob puts up a finer show, being a man with money-making gifts and experience; but where the foundations are doubtful, who can say what may happen if a shock comes?"
"I wouldn't call his foundations doubtful," answered Margery. "I should say his foundations were the strongest part about him. Not that I've ever seen them. Nobody has. Jeremy, for all his weakness and instinct for change, gets more out of life than Jacob. Jacob misses a lot by his nature."
"If he misses anything that he'd be the better for having, be sure there's a reason," asserted Judith. "Haven't I seen it thousands of times? Don't ninety-nine men and women out of a hundred miss a lot, just because the one thing needful—the absolute trust and certainty that all is for the best—be denied them?"
"He doesn't grant that all's for the best, because he doesn't think or feel so," answered Margery.
"There you are then! That's weak faith. That's what I'm telling you. The man who pits his opinions against God and doubts of the righteous fate of the world is next door to a lost man himself."
"He's talked of these things," answered Jacob's wife, "for I've challenged him sometimes and said how I believe, with you, that nothing happens that's not ordained to happen. But he won't grant that. He holds much evil happens that we might escape, if men were wiser and more patient and reasonable. He's great on reason."
"I'm sorry to hear it," replied Judith. "Reason is well known for a very faulty shift and the play-ground of the devil. Reason don't save no souls, but it damns a parlous number, and I wish I could feel a lot surer than I do where Jacob will spend his eternity."
Margery was not moved at this dreadful suspicion.
"Goodness is goodness and can't be badness," she said, "and goodness is rewarded. Jacob says religion can't alter your instincts, or your nature; and if you're the fidgety, anxious sort, belief in the Almighty won't make you less so. You may know perfectly well that you ought to trust, like a lamb trusts its mother; but Jacob says you can't always keep your mind fixed on God, when it's full to bursting with a wife and children. I know what he means well enough."
"Do you? Then I'm cruel sorry to hear it," answered Judith, who was much perturbed. "What's religion for but to alter your instincts and your wretched nature? If I thought that man was weakening your faith by a hair's breadth, or casting the shadow of danger over your soul, I'd call upon you on my knees to leave him."
Then Barlow spoke, calmed his wife and endeavoured to lighten the gravity of the conversation.
"Let it be, Judy, and use your brains," he began. "We all very well know what a difficult thing it is to say what we mean, for words beat their makers, time and again, and half the trouble in the world, so parson tells me, was begot at Babel. And I doubt not that what Margery says Jacob told her, wasn't exactly what Jacob thought he'd told her. Plain mouth-speech is a very hard thing to reach, and if we, who keep a shop, don't know it, who should?"
"He's very sparing of words at all times," added Margery.
"Jacob," continued Barlow, "is hard in some things and silly soft in others. But every man that was ever born does silly things in a woman's opinion, off and on. And women have got their own silliness—to the male's eye. Not you, Judith, but the race in general. Women drive men wild sometimes, and we drive them wild. The difference is that generally they tell us if we disagree with them, and we ain't so open."
"That's true," admitted Margery. "And nought, I'm sure, vexes a woman more than to know she's going wrong and not be told how."
When Judith had gone to put on her bonnet for chapel, Margery returned to the subject of the villa residence and cheered her father up.
"I want to see you lay the foundation brick," she said, "and I hope you will start next spring if not sooner. It's high time you and mother slacked off."
"It is," he answered, "and I can see myself doing it; but I can't see her."
Avis and John Henry returned at this hour and presently, leaving Mr. Huxam behind to take care of his chest, they proceeded to the temple of the Chosen Few. Jeremy appeared with Jane, and Adam Winter and his aunt were also among the small congregation. Margery felt glad to see Miss Winter, for she now liked better to speak with Adam when another was present. For pride, she had not mentioned past events to him, and the man guessed not that he had ever won a harsh word or thought from Margery's husband behind his back.
There was a measure of truth in Barlow Huxam's argument, for Bullstone sometimes missed conveying the warmth he felt, from frugality of spoken words. His deeds atoned in the judgment of most men and women, since speech conveys no special unction to bucolic minds. It is only the urban populations, fed from youth upon the newspaper, that are so easily hoodwinked by volubility.
Leaving her mother refreshed by devotion, Margery joined Amelia Winter on the homeward tramp to Shipley, Adam asked after the illness in the kennels and expressed regret at it. Then Margery inquired for Sammy, who had cut his leg when mowing fern.
"He's all right," answered Samuel's aunt; "but him being laid by for ten days opened our eyes to his usefulness, didn't it, Adam? Take the bull alone. 'Turk' is a queer-tempered party, and nobody else will dare face him; but along with Sammy he's a proper lamb. My nephew orders him about like as if he was a dog, and will even dare to hit him over the nose if he's cranky."
"A very queer truth," admitted Adam. "There's something in Samuel that gets over 'Turk.' They understand each other. We're going to show the bull at Brent Fair presently, and if he falls short of a prize, I don't know what my brother will do—talk to the judges I expect!"
The famous Pony Fair was near at hand and, on the occasion of this annual revel, not only ponies, but sheep and cattle came to Brent.
"No chance of your master going to the revel I suppose?" asked Adam. "Never shows himself at such times."
"I wish he did," answered Margery. "I'm always on at him to have a bit of fun when it offers, which isn't often. But pleasuring's pain to him."
"Get's his pleasure different. I met Benny up over, and he says when he's off next year, Mr. Bullstone will very like take on Huntingdon—for his health."
"For his mind's health," answered she, not sorry to breathe her grievance. "He's such a lover of peace that he feels a day or two up there sometimes—beyond sight and sound of his fellow-creatures and the fret of his family—would do his tormented mind a lot of good."
"Fancy! 'The fret of his family'—eh? Takes every sort to make a world, no doubt, and the sort that knows its own luck is the rarest of all."
"I understand, though I don't share, his feeling," explained Margery, who instantly supported Jacob when any other questioned his manner of life. "It's the contrast from the racket and din of home. You're a bachelor and seem like to stop one, so you don't know and never will know what a noisy, bustling house with childer in it exactly means. But to a thinker, like Jacob, there comes a craving to get out of reach of real life sometimes. A spell of silence and his own company always put him in a good mood. He'll go off for the day when he can, on some pretext, but I know it means a day of solitude. Solitude doesn't mean loneliness to him. It's a craving, like some men crave for drink."
"You're not the same though?"
"Not I. I love company and pleasant faces and the news. I shall be at the fair with my children."
"I'm fond of a rally myself. You'll drop on very nice people at them times—folk you only see once a year, very like, and yet are glad to call friends. Pony Fair's a great place for meeting such. Sammy's for it, too, though you wouldn't think so. And never takes a drop too much, if he's got animals to look after. So I always see that he has. But if he's a free man with no responsibility, then he'll let himself go and get blind in no time."
Elsewhere the children discussed a more serious subject. They had heard a stern discourse and considered it.
"I can stand hell better in cold weather than hot," said John Henry. "Makes you sweat in the summer, but warms you when it's frosty."
"You didn't ought to say that, did he, Miss Winter?" asked Avis; then she explained John Henry's view to Amelia.
"Let hell alone," answered the old woman. "Remember there is such a place and just keep it at the back of your mind—same as we always keep a kitchen at the back of the house. Heaven's your eternal home well hope. Be you going to the revel?"
"All of us but father," said Avis. "He won't go, but mother's taking us."
"You'll have a nice swing in the 'roundabouts' I expect."
"I shan't," said John Henry. "I'm going to learn about the cattle; so's Robert Elvin from Owley. He's older than me, but he don't know a bit more about farming than what I do, though he's been at it near two year."
"Don't you puff yourself up, John Henry," warned Amelia. "You hear my nephew, Mr. Winter. He's been a farmer for five and twenty years, and yet he'll tell you there's always more and more to learn."
"That's one for you, John Henry," said Avis.
The boy considered what to reply. He suffered reproof from men, but hated it from women.
"I only said that Bob Elvin didn't know more than me. I didn't puff myself up," he answered, "and if I've still got a lot to know when I'm so old as Mr. Winter, then I shan't be much of a farmer."
"Time and human wisdom don't stand still," explained Amelia. "There's always a lot left to know about everything, because larning increases and new-fangled things are always coming to the top. I dare say pigs will fly some day. If you ever catch yourself thinking you know all there is to farming, John Henry, then you'll do very well to be frightened, for that'll mean you're going to get left."
"I ain't afeared I'll get left, Miss Winter," he answered stoutly.
The fair continued to be matter for general conversation. Amelia alone was not going.
"Too old," she said. "Half the pleasure of a revel be to know you ain't coming home to an empty house and the fire out."
"You'd better keep Jacob company," advised Margery. "I'm always wanting him to find new friends, because the old ones drop off so."
"There's no doubt Jacob's first friend is that ancient man, Billy Marydrew. And a very companionable, cheerful old bird he is. But he's up home eighty, I believe, and have got to go pretty soon," replied Adam.
"Yes," admitted Margery. "He's my husband's dearest friend, I do think—except one. Funny he should have one at both ends of life."
"The other being?" asked Adam.
"Why, his own youngest—Auna."
"And a very dear, dinky child to have for a friend," admitted Amelia Winter. "But in my experience it ban't wise for a man to fasten on his darter, specially if she's going to grow into a pretty woman before you can look round; for then comes love and good-bye. A maid shares her heart with her father only till the lover comes."
They parted at the gate of Shipley Farm and Margery followed her boy and girl, who had run forward. It was dusk and still. Already the owls hooted from the fir wood.
Morning broke in misty promise on the day of the Pony Fair, and Samuel Winter was first to set forth from Shipley. He had been up since light making the great bull's toilet, and now man and beast tramped together through a meadow in the valley, where was a field path that shortened the journey to Brent. 'Turk,' in his lordly prime, strode through the white meadow mist behind Samuel, who led him by a rope attached to a ring in his nose. The great red 'Devon' had curls on his forehead, short, stubby horns and a broad back, as flat as a table from shoulder-blade to haunch. He was in grand fettle, and Samuel, too, looked transformed from the slouch of every day. He wore his best clothes, a new, hard hat and a blue tie—his last birthday present from his aunt. Yellow leggings completed Sammy's attire and he puffed a pipe, sending smoke into the cold, morning air, while Turk snorted warm, sweet breath, that turned to steam.
John Henry and Peter were the first to start from Red House. Indeed they overtook Samuel and joined the procession of the bull.
At a later hour Margery, Avis and Auna drove off in a trap together, and they passed Adam Winter on foot, also journeying to Brent for the day.
Jacob made it clear that he should not visit the township, or the fair. He was going to Owley, to see Joe Elvin, and might then ride further. Margery begged him to reconsider his determination and join her presently; but he could not undertake an enterprise so distasteful.
"I shall hear all about it afterwards," he said.
He ate his dinner alone and then rode out, stopping a moment to see Mr. Marydrew. William was just emerging from his cottage gate, dressed for the revel.
"How's the distemper?" he asked.
"Got it under. It will be past in ten days. The trouble has taught me something and made me think better of my son, Peter. Good pluck and good sense there, Billy."
"I told you what was hid in that boy."
"Off to the fair, I see."
"Yes, faith. Not many more junkettings in store for me. And, finding the day so brave, I felt up for anything. Josh Peatheyjohns is going to give me a lift from his corner."
"And what do you get out of this racket and noise, and crush of beasts and humans?" asked Jacob.
Billy laughed.
"What do I get out of it? Well, I get pleasure out of it—an old man's pleasure. First there's the pleasure of following custom and doing, yet again, what I've done more than fifty years already. And to be well enough to go at all is a pleasure in itself. Then there's the old faces and funny customers I've known when we were boys—a good few yet. And then there's the sight of the young; because if you can't have a good time yourself, the next best thing is to see somebody else having a good time. And to watch the young enjoying themselves and doing all the same things we did, brings back the past in a cheerful sort of way."
"I'm answered, then," replied Jacob, "and it's a good advertisement for your pleasures, Billy, that you can live them over again in others. When I'm old, there will be nothing like that for me."
"You're too old for your age as it is," answered the elder. "There's nought makes a man grow old before his time like brooding and over-much thought. Solitude throws you in on your own nature, Jacob, and a man's own nature ain't always the best company for him."
"That's true enough."
"On an annual great day like this, nobody did ought to turn his back on his neighbours, but go amongst 'em in a spirit of good-will and charity. A gathering of jolly souls is good for the heart, because you're drove out of yourself, and hear other opinions, and rub off the rust of the mind."
He chattered till Josh Peatheyjohns and his market cart appeared in the road ahead.
"Come on, grandfather!" shouted the farmer, and soon Billy was borne away, while Jacob rode his horse through the autumnal lanes. He passed Bullstone Farm, but did not enter; then he descended to Glaze Brook, where the ancient pear tree stood, more ghostly than ever in its cerecloth of grey lichens; and then he climbed to Owley.
Robert Elvin had already gone to the fair, with two ponies and a dozen ewe lambs to sell. His mother and father were at home, and Jacob, tethering his horse, knocked at the door. Mrs. Elvin admitted him and he soon sat beside the sick farmer. Joe suffered from paralysis and was now bed-ridden. He took his troubles ill and seemed not very grateful for Bullstone's call. His wife was weary and worn. She confessed, as she saw the visitor to his horse an hour later, that it would be a great blessing when it pleased the Lord to remove her husband; and she uttered a hope that Jacob would not feel her son too young to carry on.
"Bob's a man in all but years," she said, "and you can trust him, as Joe has trusted him ever since he was struck down."
But Bullstone made no promises. He condoled with the wife and agreed that her husband could not go too soon, since his life was a burden to him and all brought in contact with him. He praised Robert, who was favourably known, and, after leaving Owley, rode round the farm and satisfied himself that no neglect appeared. He then called on Jane Huxam at Owley Cot and heard that Jeremy had gone to the fair. Jane was packing and she declared herself very sorry to depart.
"The green-grocer's is likely to suit my husband best, however," she said, "because the brightest of him, which is his manners, is thrown away as a huckster. He's a born shopman and he'll be nearer his parents, which will be a comfort. Yes, there's dilapidations, Jacob—I see your eyes roaming round; but nothing to name; and when Margery was here backalong, she granted I'd took very good care of the garden."
"Where are you going to live?" he asked.
"Over the shop. It's smaller than this nice house, of course, and no beautiful garden. We can't expect that; but it's in a good part of Brent as you know, and but two minutes from the post-office."
Jacob grunted.
"Jeremy's thrown away the best chance he's ever likely to get."
"I hope not. He's not much of an open air man really—specially in winter. His gifts shine indoors. And he was wondering if you'd want the hoss and trap back, as unfortunately we've never been able to pay for 'em, or whether you'd be so exceeding brotherly and generous as to let him have them still—for the green-grocery. Of course it would be a godsend if you could; and, if all goes so well as we expect, he ought to be able to pay you back with interest in a year I shouldn't wonder."
"You're hopeful," said Jacob. "A good thing that he married a hopeful pattern of woman."
"And every right to hope," she answered. "Jeremy's no common man. If he was a shopwalker in a big business, he'd be worth thousands to it. In fact he's one of those who are likely to be worth a lot more to somebody else than himself."
"As long as you're satisfied, Jane—-"
"Well satisfied," she said.
He looked at the baby—a boy.
"Teach your little one to know his own mind; and don't let him be brought up like a feather in a gale of wind."
"If he's half the man his father is, there'll be no call to quarrel with him," said Jane. "He's going to be like his father outwardly, and his grandmother sees the promise of character already."
"You'll be close to her at Brent, my dear."
Jane was cautious.
"We shall—parlous close; and as an 'in-law' to Mrs. Huxam, Jacob, same as me, you go in a bit of fear, too, no doubt?"
"Not I."
"Well, you're older and powerfuller than me, of course. But she's got a weak spot, which you haven't found out and I have. Jeremy's her weak spot, thank God. She sees what a man he really is under his bad luck, and he'll never go scat really—not while she's above ground. She feels to Jeremy same as Mr. Huxam feels to your wife. And I dare say you've gained by that sometimes."
"I didn't know that Barlow Huxam is specially set on Margery," he answered.
"Oh, yes, he is," said Jane. "So they're both safe, and both will be snug sooner or late. Of course that don't matter to a rich man like you; but it's a comforting thought for me. Those the Lord loveth, He chasteneth—so Mrs. Huxam says; but anybody can weather a few storms if he knows he'll be safe in port sooner or late."
With this nautical simile, Jacob left Jane to continue her packing. And then, as he turned his horse's head for home, a sudden whim took him and—why he could not have explained to himself—he decided to go to Brent and look upon the fair. Thinking back in years to come, he dated a very perceptible increase of his soul's sickness from that day. It was a disease of an intermittent sort, masked sometimes by circumstance, drugged sometimes by the passage of events; but fitfully it progressed, punctuated by incidents; and from the day of the Pony Fair, it always seemed to the man that his ailment grew, until it blotted clean thinking and, by its progress, so weakened reason that the end came before its time, but not before he was sapped and riddled with the poison. He knew also, that but for the act of chance and the hazards of his well-protected life, the venom might have remained immune within his nature for ever. But the accidents of existence offered a seed bed, and the thing increased until a climax inexorable swept away the foundations of his ordered days and left him to the challenge of the ruins.
Cloud banks already ascended over the horizon southerly as the sun sank upon Ugborough Beacon; but weather could not now defeat the day, or lessen its triumph. A very successful fair had rewarded local effort. Prices were good and the ponies brought a harvest to their owners. Crowds wandered over the enclosures, and the last competition, for driving hacks, was in progress at four of the afternoon. Jeremy and his father were watching it, with Avis and Robert Elvin, who had sold his stock to satisfy himself. Then the boy and girl drifted away together and Robert entertained her at various stalls, where sweetmeats and trumpery were being sold. They listened to Cheap Jack, and presently Robert invited Avis to have her fortune told by a green-and-yellow parrokeet. He paid sixpence out of five shillings of his private savings, and an Italian woman set her little bird about its task. It plucked a grubby card, and Avis learned she would marry a dark, handsome man with plenty of money.
"I hope that will come true," said Robert.
"Now see your luck," urged Avis; but Bob was not going to spend another sixpence in this fashion.
"Your luck might be mine," he murmured, and Avis, who thought well of the youth, made no comment. She was sixteen now and Robert eighteen.
Sammy Winter stood, a grotesque and gloomy figure, thrusting up between 'Turk' and another bull. He wore a blue rosette in his hat; but it represented the second prize and gave Sammy no pleasure whatever. He protested and growled to all who would listen; and if looks could have slain 'Turk's' conqueror, the monster must swiftly have perished.
'Turk' was lying down and chewing the cud, indifferent to his moderate honours; while his guardian talked to Billy Marydrew and explained the iniquity of the decision.
"Never mind, my dear," said Billy. "Us can't all be first. Your turn next. 'Turk's' young yet. He'll have plenty more chances, but the winner's past his prime."
Mr. Marydrew wore a little flag in his buttonhole and a little worsted and wire monkey stuck in the brim of his hat. Thus he echoed the spirit of the hour and ambled cheerfully about with a friend or two.
John Henry and his brother had studied the sheep and cattle and watched the competitions. Then they joined other boys at a shooting gallery and presently drifted to a boxing booth, where John Henry was invited to spar with a lean, curly-headed Dago, but declined.
Auna kept close to her mother, who found many acquaintance at the fair. On the occasions of entertainments, she had grown to be glad if her husband happened to be out of the way; for she knew that he was happier so, and her own pleasure, without his restraint, became greater. She felt self-conscious before other people with Jacob beside her, but struck a more unrestrained and joyous note when he was not there.
They had met Adam Winter at a steam 'round-about,' where wooden horses revolved to the blare of an organ. Here he was spending pennies for the entertainment of some young people and invited Auna to mount, which she gladly did. Then, as an afterthought, he urged Margery to take a steed and did the same himself. Auna, her pleasure much increased by this arrangement, held her mother's hand as the horses whirled round, while Winter, sitting on the steed behind them, tickled Auna's ear with a peacock's feather. The light began to grow dusky, but the liveliness by no means abated. People crowded now round the dancers, now at the wild beast show, now among the 'Aunt Sallys' and swings.
Upon this scene Jacob descended from above, and, over the upper edge of the field, was able to see much from his uplifted position on horseback, though, since his head was but little higher than the hedge, none observed him looking through it. He was about to ride to the entrance, when he observed the big 'round-about' within thirty yards of him. Thus he saw Margery and Auna, watched Auna helped on to a wooden horse and then marked Margery and Adam Winter enter upon their juvenile amusement with other adults. He saw them circle, observed the rare jollity and high spirits of his wife, the evident pleasure of the man. Then the folly of intruding upon that crowd of cheerful spirits weighed him down and he turned and rode off. He carried away only the memory of Margery's happiness. She was laughing as she never laughed at home; she was chattering to Adam and her face was flushed. And Winter rode behind her, as though she belonged to him, while he played with Auna. Who was the master of Shipley to do such things? Bullstone's bias swiftly exaggerated the spectacle that his eyes had chronicled, and the essential virus in his own imagination soon poured out to leaven all. He saw Jeremy ahead as he trotted home, but Jacob entered a gate and took a way through fields and a plantation, to avoid his brother-in-law and everybody else. He did not wish it to be known, or reported again, that he had been in sight of the fair. As for Jeremy, he had borrowed a few shillings from his father and was now returning to Jane and his infant son with futile fairings.
Before he reached Shipley, Jacob wrestled with his reason concerning what he had seen; but he could not dismiss the vision, and he told himself that it was impossible to determine the gravity of the situation until the end of that day. He troubled himself as usual by dwelling on details. He wondered what would have happened had Auna not been there. Then, perhaps, instead of tickling the child with a peacock's feather, Winter might have dared to touch Margery.... So the poison flowed. He tried to block his mind once or twice, but it was useless. He could not get away from what his eyes had seen; he kept returning to every childish detail. Then he fought to put all behind him until his family returned. Upon what Margery might choose to reveal of the day's doings much would hang: so he assured himself. He desired the night and their home-coming. But they would not be back until late, for it was understood that they supped with the Huxams and stopped for the fireworks destined to end that day.
The fireworks tortured him again. Who would be watching the fireworks with Margery? Time dragged unspeakably. It seemed to him that his wife had been gone for an age. At nine o'clock he walked out as far as Shipley Bridge to meet them. Would Winter accompany them? Would they have offered him a place in the Red House trap? They could not, unless the boys walked home. Otherwise there would be no room.
Darkness had descended and the autumn stars shone, for the threat of rain had passed for a while at sunset. He debated whether it would be worse to find that Winter had driven home with his family, or had not done so. It was certain that, to such a mood, whichever course Adam might take would present the graver anxiety.
He loitered, waiting for the sound of wheels while night thickened, the stars disappeared, at last fine rain began to fall. A heavy fish splashed in the river, and then he heard, far off on the hither hill, shouts and roystering laughter clear through the stillness. He knew that it was Josh Peatheyjohns back from the fair, taking leave of Billy Marydrew. He wondered what his old friend had made of his day, how much whiskey he had drunk and how the morning would find him. Then a trotting horse came briskly down the lane to the bridge and he heard his children's laughter.
Would it stop and drop Winter, or no? He could only see the vague mass of the cart and the yellow ray it shot from a lamp into the mist. It did not stop, but went forward over the bridge, then turned to the right for Red House. All his family were there no doubt with John Henry driving. He hastened homeward arguing against himself.
At home he found a merry party chattering in the kitchen, and was invited to see the fairings and hear of the day's fun. Peter had gone to put the horse up and John Henry told his father of those who had won the prizes and how the sales had gone. Margery declared the fair was a great success and all considered it better than for ten years past. Avis showed gifts from Robert Elvin and told how well he had sold his lambs. Auna cuddled to Jacob on a great settle by the fire. She was very sleepy, but had to exhibit a peacock's feather.
"Mr. Winter gave it to me, father," she said.
The plume brought back the 'round-about' and, acting on impulse, Jacob took the feather and thrust it into the fire.
"Unlucky," he said. "We won't have a peacock's feather in this house, whoever gave it to you, my precious."
There was silence and Auna gazed, round-eyed.
She never questioned her father. His word was wisdom on every subject; and though he had often rated his boys for repeating ancient superstitions and laughed them out of the old folk-lore, she did not remember that.
"Mr. Winter didn't ought to have given it to me if it's unlucky," she said.
Margery felt the cloud, that had lifted for some good hours, limning heavily about her. She knew Jacob's excuse was nonsense, but she did not guess the reason for his act and, unseen, resented it.
"To bed, to bed!" she cried. "Be off, Auna, and you, Avis. Our chatter won't interest father."
Peter returned, asked after a suffering dog or two, heard that they mended and then retired with John Henry. Margery's maid was returning on foot. Barton Gill had gone to bed.
Jacob hung some of the damp coats to the fire and threw on a turf or two.
"You've enjoyed yourself?" he asked.
"Yes—we've had a merry day. I'm sorry Auna took that feather, but I couldn't well refuse to let the kind man give it to her. I didn't know you were superstitious and I'm sure Adam Winter didn't. We live and learn, don't we?"
He waited for her to speak on, but she prepared to go to bed.
"Tell me about your adventures," he said slowly.
"No adventures—just a fair and all the fun of the fair. The usual thing—all very noisy and merry and a good deal that was silly I expect; but it takes you out of yourself, and you see a lot of people happy and forgetting their troubles for a minute. That's something."
"What did you do?"
"What didn't I do? Played about like a girl. Avis spent her time with Bob Elvin. I think Master Bob has lost his heart in that quarter. He's old for his age. John Henry was all for the stock and the machines, and Peter poked about on his own. We had a very nice holiday dinner with father and mother and, after it, father came to the fair, but mother stopped in the shop and let Miss Reed, from the post-office, go off duty. Then Jeremy turned up and we all played about. I took the children into the wild beast show, then they went their ways again—all but Auna. She kept with me and we went riding on a 'round-about.' Yes, I did, and Irm afraid I thought how vexed you'd have been if you'd seen me."
"Why?"
"Oh—not dignified and all that. But it was the spirit of the fun. Auna loved it. Lots of grown-up people rode."
"And when did Winter give Auna that feather?"
Margery laughed.
"Lord, my dear, you ought to have been a lawyer. How do I know? He was there—everybody was there but you—and we met him. His bull 'Turk' only got a second, and poor Samuel was cruel vexed about it. We shall have to look after Avis and Bob. Did you see his father? He told me that Joe was no worse—just a bed-lier for evermore, poor chap."
Jacob's mind was far from Mr. Elvin. He felt that Margery should have told him she had ridden on the steam horses with Adam Winter. He had given her opportunity and she doubtless remembered the incident very well. But she was not going to tell him. And it was equally certain that he would never tell her he had seen her. His mind sickened, then, conscious of her question and ignorant that three minutes had passed since she put it, he answered.
"Yes, I saw Joseph Elvin. He is taking his misfortunes in a pretty poor-spirited fashion and seems to think to escape them and pass into peace is an evil. He pecks at death with his long nose, like an angry bird in a cage. I told him death was no great matter for them that died, only for them that are left behind; but he says in his case, if he's got to go, it will be a very unfair and unrighteous thing and contrary to justice. As if he was the first that had suffered from injustice!"
"He's not dead yet, however."
"No; only living death. He'd hoped to retire and have a few years of ease, before the end, so he's very angry it isn't to be."
"Poor chap. It is hard. Bob's much set on carrying on. Should you think he could do it, with his mother and the head man?"
"Yes, I think he could. I think very well of him."
"But his father must reign while he lives of course."
"Of course. No need to tell me that."
They talked in desultory fashion for ten minutes longer, then their servant appeared and Jacob locked up and put out the lamps.
He did not immediately follow his wife to bed, but strode up and down the kitchen deep in thought. Once or twice a dog barked from the kennels and he stood to listen. Then he tramped up and down again for a little longer. He had no wish to speak any more and did not go upstairs until he knew Margery would be asleep.
At last, as the clock chimed midnight, he took off his boots and leggings and ascended to his chamber. He listened at his children's doors. The boys, who slept together, were still talking and he looked in and told them to go to sleep. The girls also slept together and he entered and listened. Both slumbered. He bent over Auna's bed and kissed her; but he did not go to the larger bed wherein Avis lay.
Margery, on her way to the post-office, called upon her brother at the green-grocer's. Jane and he had settled in and Jeremy declared that the future might, at last, be regarded as cloudless.
"I've come into my kingdom," he said. "I find I've got a feeling and understanding for fruit and vegetables you wouldn't believe. It was hid in me all these years, waiting to get its chance. Mother says I dress a window better far than anybody she's known. I've got a great instinct for a pattern, Margery, and a pattern always makes an appeal to the human eye. You can catch almost any sort of mind with a pattern, and what better for patterns than apples and oranges and so on?"
The end of the year was come and Jeremy had excelled himself with a design of fruit and brussel sprouts. On the green ground he had arranged 'A Happy Christmas' in yellow bananas—magnificent, but not business in the opinion of experts.
Her brother once more showed Margery the wonders of the shop, and Jane explained the working of the till, which interested her most.
"Once a week I go to Plymouth to buy choice fruits," explained Jeremy, "but, at this time of the year, there's very little demand for the highest things."
"Or at any time in a place this size," said Jane. "We've had pineapples and other curiosities go bad on our hands, and I pray he won't bring any more back, because you can't return 'em when they're past their prime, which very soon happens to 'em."
"These are the higher touches and flourishes you may say," explained Jeremy. "The solid backbone is greens and roots, including potatoes. Did the notice over the shop strike you? Just 'J. Huxam' in chocolate and gold?"
"Shall you sell poultry?" asked Margery, and Jane hoped they might do so.
"A little game also," said her husband. "There's nothing interests the better class of customers more than a good row of pheasants, or a hare or two. But that's for the future. For the present I'm wanting to make it known that my quality in fruit and vegetables is far ahead of the old shop. Then, again, it's wonderful what you can do selling coals and coke on a small scale to the cottages. I might develop in that direction—of course not myself, but employing a staff."
It had always been Jeremy's ambition to employ a staff.
Jacob Bullstone met his wife presently by appointment at the shop, and Margery made her Christmas purchases. It was also understood that Jacob conveyed a couple of tons of potatoes to his brother-in-law. The crop had been so large at Red House that Jacob found himself with more than he would need and he now offered the business of selling his surplus to his wife's brother. Jeremy was delighted and engaged to get a price high above that of the wholesale markets.
"I'm working up a class of customer who can be trusted to pay for the best, which is all they want. Such people are only to be got by accident, and I catch 'em with patterns. They are passing by perhaps, and never thinking of the class of fruit I sell, when they just glance in, expecting to see the usual dreary piles of apples and mounds of nuts and so on; but instead—well, you've only got to look in the window yourself. And I change it all every second or third day. Don't I, Jane? I've got a mind for designing really, and I feel sometimes it's a thousand pities I wasn't taught the designer's art."
Customers interrupted Jeremy and they left him for the post-office. Jacob came to do an act of kindness and was interested to hear how his father-in-law would take it, He called it a 'Christmas box' and, under that name, he had offered Barlow an acre of good land with a road frontage, a quarter of a mile north of the railway station. It was a site in every way worthy of the habitation Mr. Huxam proposed to erect during the following spring.
He had not seen Jacob since receiving this gift by letter, and now he declared himself as absolutely unable to accept anything so great.
"We all know you for a very generous man," said Barlow, "and this I'll so far meet you as to do: I'll pay what you paid for the land, which still leaves me and my wife very much in your debt. Because the ground to-day is worth double what you spent upon it ten years ago."
Jacob, however, would not budge.
"It's to be all, or none," he said. "You must take my gift my way—that I insist. Only a small mind grudges to receive gifts, and I know you're large minded enough for anything."
"I am," confessed Barlow. "As I said to Judy when your letter came, 'this is the sort of seemly act which may well happen between a man and his son-in-law.' And needless to say that all we have, my wife and me, will go to Jeremy and Margery and their children, when we have no more need for it. In this case, if it is to go through, we should leave the villa residence to Margery."
"That's your affair," answered Jacob. "It's an idea altogether outside my scheme of things, though perhaps not hers."
Then Mrs. Huxam appeared. She was not emotional on the subject of the land, but dwelt on other aspects of the new house and the great changes entailed by retirement. Then Margery brought her back to the gift and insisted on some expression concerning it. Judith, however, proved exceedingly dry. She was consistent in her famous conviction: that nothing happens outside the purpose of an all-seeing and all-loving Creator.
"I am quite pleased about it," she said. "When the Lord wills a thing, it's always a great joy to weak, human nature if they thing appeals to us and we can accept it in a humble, human spirit without having to call upon faith. As a rule, when God acts nowadays, so faulty have our natures grown to be, that it generally demands great trust and faith to see He is right; but when I heard Jacob had given us that parcel of nice, sloping land under the plantations, I said, 'Good!' I was glad for my husband, but I was still gladder for Jacob, because we all know it's more blessed to give than receive. We envy his power of giving and hope to be spared to practise it. Meanwhile, to receive is very good discipline for my husband and me."
After supper Jacob and his father-in-law were left alone to discuss the ground, and Barlow brought out the plans of the new house. He manifested a larger sense of obligation than Judith; indeed he apologised for her.
"You mustn't take it in bad part," he said. "My wife has such an amazing sense of what's right, and such a lofty idea of human duty, that it never surprises her when people do good and kind things. It's a compliment to human nature, in a way, that she can see such virtue displayed without showing surprise. If you was a different sort of man, then, no doubt, she'd have been struck dumb with wonder and hesitated to take the gift, fearing some hidden motive for it; but with you it's all plain sailing and aboveboard and in your character. You can't get a grape from a thorn, and if a thorn offers you a grape, 'tis best to think twice before you taste it. And so, in a word, the way my wife have taken this is really a compliment to you, and between me and my valued son-in-law there's no question at all about the gift hurting. In fact that's nonsense."
"You're a much cleverer man than you think you are, Barlow," answered Jacob. "You're so often called upon to smooth places left rough by your high-minded wife, that you do it like second nature. But it argues great judgment and skill in you."
Mr. Huxam was pleased at this praise.
"I believe I am a clever man in my small way," he admitted. "Judy sees it, too; but she's doubtful if it's a virtue or a vice. My best art is to get round sharp corners. It's a very useful gift in a shop, and in life in general. For that matter life itself is a shop, Jacob. We all bring our small wares to market, and some get a purchaser and some never do. What think you of Jeremy's new venture? He says it's been the dream of his life to have a fruit shop. But he's said that before about everything that offered."
"I envy him his skill to win people," answered Jacob; "and it's a good thing he's got that skill, because he'll always want his fellow-creatures to help him fall light."
"I'm afraid so. I understand him better than his mother, though don't you repeat it. She reckons that once Jeremy's in his proper notch, we shall have a very cheering experience; and she also knows that the virtuous man never is called to beg his bread. That's all right; but Jeremy's gifts ain't the sort that'll ever find butter. He's a very ornamental sort of person; but ornament without usefulness is a vain thing."
Elsewhere Margery spoke with her mother and revealed a growing interest.
"Have you ever thought upon Robert Elvin, Joe's son, at Owley?" she asked.
"I have not," answered Judith. "Why should I think upon him? He comes in sometimes, on errands for his mother or father. Civil spoken and a good face."
"It will sound funny to your generation, but I reckon he's after Avis."
"They're children, Margery!"
"To you, yes; not quite to me; not at all to themselves. Bob is nearly nineteen and has done a man's work for a couple of years now, and Avis—she's old for her age too. She likes him."
"Chasten her then. She didn't ought to have an eye for a male for years yet."
"It's all very pretty and natural. She can't help it, and she don't know in the least what it means I expect. But he does. He's not a gadabout boy, or fond of the girls—quite the contrary; but he'll often come over of a Sunday to dinner now and—look at her. And Jacob likes him. He likes his nature. I wouldn't say but that Bob Elvin suits him better, in a manner of speaking, than his own sons."
"If so, then a very wicked thing," answered Mrs. Huxam. "I trust you're wrong, Margery, because that would show something in Jacob that's contrary to religion. And when you see things contrary to religion, hope dies. And if you tell me he looks at another man's son more favourable than upon his own, then I little like it."
"It's nothing unnatural, mother. Bob's very quiet and attends to Jacob's every word. John Henry and Peter don't listen to him as close as they might. They're full of their own ideas; and Jacob doesn't pretend to be a farmer, though, of course, he knows all about it really. But he lets John Henry run on and never troubles much to contradict him. And Robert don't run on. He listens and says but little. He's anxious above his age, with the cares of the farm and a dying father. He's called to think of many things that my boys haven't got to think about. We cheer him up."
"There's nothing whatever to cast him down about his father," answered Judith. "That's a part of life we've all got to face; and if Joe Elvin is right with Christ, then to see him getting daily nearer his reward should be a good sight for a good son. It's only selfishness makes us mourn, just as half the big, costly marble stones in the churchyard are stuck up to ourselves rather than to the dead."
"Like will cleave to like, and his two sons aren't like Jacob very much. He loves them dearly, mother, and is proud of them; but he don't care to see any of us coming forward. He's sensitive and shrinking about his own. I never shall understand all there is to him and I won't pretend it. One thing is sure: he never wounds by intent, like most men do when they're angry. He never is angry outside. He has a sort of cold anger; but you can't always tell why, and he never lets you know why. Of course every man has got his own difficulties and the side he hides from his wife."
"Not at all," answered her mother. "Many men hide nothing, for the very good reason they've got nothing to hide; and many men hide nothing, for the very good reason they can't. Look at your father. Would I have stood secrets and 'cold anger' as you call it? I wouldn't stand hot anger, or any sort of anger; because well I know that he's got nothing to be angry about. For that matter to be angry at all is godless and means weak faith."
Margery had sometimes considered the wisdom of confiding her difficulties to Mrs. Huxam; but she had never done so. She was not proud for herself, but still felt very proud for Jacob; and to confess the truth would be to weaken him in her mother's eyes. In a sense she was glad that her husband could be jealous of her, since she supposed that such an emotion only existed in connection with very deep and passionate love; and if he had long since ceased to give any outward signs of such a love, (by sacrificing himself more to her reasonable tastes, for example) jealousy, she thought, must none the less prove that fierce affection still existed unseen. She, therefore, conscious of the baselessness of his error, troubled only occasionally about it and was wholly ignorant of its extent, of its formidable and invisible roots in his nature, ever twining and twisting deeper for their food, and finding it in his own imagination alone. So she kept dumb concerning her discomfort, and indeed, disregarded it, save at the fitful intervals when it was made manifest before her eyes. And she erred in supposing these almost childish irruptions sprang from no deep central flame. To her they were in a measure absurd, because she knew that they were founded upon nothing; but her error lay in ignorance of origins: she had never glimpsed the secret edifice that her husband had built—a house of dreams, but a house solid and real and full of awful shadows for him.
They walked home together presently and Margery told Jacob how greatly he had pleased her father.
"I know him so well," she said. "It moved him a great deal."
"It didn't move your mother, however."
"Yes it did; but you understand her way of looking at things—at everything that comes along."
"What did you think of the land regarded as discipline for them?"
"I thought it rather fine," said Margery. "It was so like mother. We can't appreciate the high, unchanging line she takes. It doesn't surprise her when men do generous things, any more than it surprises her when they do wicked things. That's her knowledge of human nature. And the pluck of her! How many are there who don't feel favours to be a bit of a nuisance; and how many have the courage to say so frankly?"
Jacob considered this.
"Wouldn't you have felt just the same, even if you weren't stern enough to say it?" she asked.
"Yes—I suppose I should."
"You may have the chance some day and find yourself in debt for gratitude."
"Gratitude should not be difficult, however."
"Why, I've heard you say yourself it's a terrible rare virtue! And you know, for no kind man has laid people under obligations oftener than you."
"I've never asked gratitude, Margery. The pleasure lies in doing a good turn."
"Very well then," she answered. "Remember your pleasure may be a sort of one-sided pain to the other party. Only with some people, of course. Some clatter enough gratitude I'm sure; but often the most grateful hide it. Mother's grateful enough. She knows what men can rise to, but she also knows how seldom they do. She never denies praise in the right quarter. Though she may not thank you, she'll thank God hearty enough, and no doubt say a prayer on your account also. The Chosen Few may not know everything there is to know; but they know it's difficult to be as generous as you; and when things like that happen, it cheers them, and they praise the Lord for letting His Light shine out so clear in a fellow-creature."
This pleased Jacob and he accepted it.
"Very good, Margery," he said. "I'm glad you said that. I thought something different. I thought gratitude depends on the giver as much as the gift, and I reckoned, because your mother doesn't like me, that she didn't like the land. But I see clearer now and have got you to thank."
"Mother does like most of you," answered his wife, "She likes you quite as well as you like her, Jacob."
Then they fell silent and his momentary warmth faded.
Chance is half-sister to destiny, and though her patterns appear less orbicular and complete, yet seen in the fulness of their weaving, from a standpoint sufficiently detached, they are often as inexorable and consummate. As Jeremy built designs with his apples and oranges; as Jacob built the ideal Bullstone terrier, working year after year with canine flesh and blood to attain the ideal; so chance, operating upon his temperament, defied its own slight name and wrought, with personal intention as it seemed, rather than unconscious accident, for a definite object. Chance appeared to exercise a malign ingenuity in finding substance. It was as though an initial incident had opened the eyes of Moira, weaver of destinies, and upon that trivial circumstance, she had elected to build the edifice of Jacob's life, choosing only one fatal material for the fabric, to the exclusion of others that might as reasonably have been selected.
The new year began; then, after a pause, wherein progress proceeded so slowly that Bullstone was not aware of movement, a quickening period followed. Thus he had always advanced—by jolts and thrusts forward—never smoothly. But remission did not blunt the raw edges of incomplete work; they were always ready to receive the next addition, when reinforcement came to the ghostly builders.
With another summer, Margery's annual holiday to Plymouth returned. It was Auna's year to accompany her mother, and when both were gone to Mr. Lawrence Pulleyblank, Jacob speculated as to whether his wife, or his youngest child left the larger gap in his life. He examined the problem and decided that no comparison could be instituted, since each represented a different plane of existence and a different field of emotional interest. But though unable to pursue the problem through any rational argument, to solve it was easy enough. His own soul told him that he missed Auna more than her mother; because Auna was far nearer what Margery had been when first he loved her, but could be no longer. Bullstone shared the usual rooted conviction of the married, that their partners have mightily altered during the years of united life. He assured himself that his own foundations were exactly as of yore, and that still he stood for the same ideals and purposes. It was Margery who had changed; Margery who had been blown away from the old anchorage in his heart and now sailed other seas. But in Auna he believed that he saw again exactly what his wife had been; in Auna he perceived growing all that had made him fall in love with Margery. Thus now he lived the more happily in her companionship. She was close to him and she loved him with devotion; but his wife did not. She had gone afield. He knew not how far off she had really wandered, but believed that the gap between them continued to lengthen as the years passed; that her outlines grew dimmer; that less and less she shared his days, more and more pursued her own, where he possessed neither will nor power to follow. And she had reached to a similar opinion concerning him.
Margery and Auna had been away a week, and Auna had already sent her father two letters full of her adventures. Then Jacob happened to be with Barton Gill, who was now reduced to milking the goats and doing other tasks within his waning activity. For the present Avis, free of school and not desirous to learn more that school could teach her, was exalted to kennel-maid, a part she filled with enthusiasm.
Gill was grumbling as usual and expressing revolutionary doubts concerning goats' milk for puppies. Peter had already dared to question its supreme value and Barton, who thought highly of Peter's knowledge and personally disliked the flock, began to wonder if the later wisdom might not discover a substitute. Jacob, however, would not hear of any change.
"Time you stopped altogether and took your ease, Barton, if you're going to put Peter's opinions higher than your own experience," he said. "Goats' milk was the first and best food for puppies long before my boy, Peter, came into the world; and it will continue to be long after he goes out of it, theories or no theories. The modern idea is to get the old, fine results all round, with half the old, hard work; and, such a fool is man, that he believes it can be done."
Then came Sammy Winter along the river path beside the kennels. He peered in, tried the iron door and finding it locked, shouted to Jacob, who stood within the yard. At his noise a dozen dogs barked and Bullstone admitted him.
"Evening, Samuel. And how is it with you?" he asked. "Haven't seen you this longful time."
"I be very nicely indeed," answered Sammy, "but our sheep-dog ban't; and I should be most thankful if you would come over, or else Gill, and look at his paw. He's drove something into it—a hob-nail I dare say; but he won't let me look, and he yowls and shows his teeth if I offer for to touch him."
Gill laughed.
"Fancy that now, Sammy—you, so bold as a hero with 'Turk,' as nobody dursn't handle but you, and yet feared of a little thing like a sheep-dog. I never would have believed it."
"You shut your head," answered the other. "You don't know nothing better'n to milk goats. The dog's a devil-dog; and I'd have shot him long ago if I'd had my way. But he's a terrible useful dog and if anything was to overtake him such as death he'd be a cruel loss. And if you dare to say I be frightened, Barton Gill, I'll be revenged against you some of these days."
Samuel was easily moved and could never stand the mildest jest against himself, or his brother. He glowered at Gill and his jaw worked.
"Don't cry about it," said Jacob kindly. "We've all got our likes and dislikes, Samuel. I wouldn't handle bees for the world, yet you can go among them and take the honey, brave as a bear. We're all frighted at some thing—if it's only our poor selves."
"'Tis a devil-dog, I tell you," repeated Sammy, "and 'Turk' hates him as much as me."
"Well I don't fear him. But can't Adam tackle him?"
"Yes he can. Adam's got the whip-hand of him, I grant. But Adam ain't there. He's gone away."
"Gone away—where?" asked Bullstone. "It isn't often your brother takes a holiday." A proleptic throb went through him. He felt that he knew Samuel's answer before he made it. And he was right.
"To Plymouth, after calves. Some proper calves he've bought off a man; and he's bringing 'em home by rail on Tuesday; and if I ban't at the station with this damned dog, I don't rightly know what might happen."
Bullstone was silent for a few moments, then he returned to the present.
"Come on," he said abruptly, and going to a little chamber at the kennels, collected a pair of gloves, one or two instruments and a bottle of healing lotion. These he put into his pocket and set off to Shipley Farm beside Samuel.
He asked concerning Adam's purchase of calves, but the other only knew that they would arrive early the following week and must be met.
The patient—a great, high-sterned English sheep-dog, with touzled head and bright eyes, one of which was blue, the other green—showed no temper to Bullstone, but he harboured private grudges against Samuel, who had been cruel to him in secret, and he probably associated his present misery with the enemy. Jacob extracted a large splinter of wood from his paw and dressed the wound, while the bob-tailed dog expressed nothing but well-mannered gratitude and licked his face.
"He'll be all right in twenty-four hours, Samuel. Shut him up till noon to-morrow, so as he can't get running in the muck, and give him an extra good supper," advised Bullstone. Amelia, who had witnessed the operation, thanked her neighbour.
"And Adam will be properly grateful, I'm sure, when he hears tell of it. A very friendly thing, and I never thought as you would come yourself."
"Your nephew's at Plymouth—eh? My wife and Auna are down there with Mr. Pulleyblank," explained Jacob.
"To be sure. And I hope the sea air will do Margery good. She've looked a thought pinnickin and weary to my eye of late. Too thin, Jacob."
"She always enjoys the change. I might go down for a day or so, perhaps, and fetch her back."
"A very clever thought," declared Amelia; "and I've asked Adam to bide there a few days, for he never takes a holiday and it will do him good and rest him. So I hope he will bide."
Bullstone weighed every word of this conversation as he walked home, and he lay awake till the dawn, oppressed—now striving to see nothing in it, now confronted with visions that worked him into a sweat of doubt and dismay. He determined to go to Plymouth. He laid his plans. Then he banished the thought and decided against any such step. Auna had not mentioned Adam Winter in her letters. He rose, lighted a candle, descended and read them again, to be sure. They cast him down immeasurably, because they mentioned that Auna had been on the sea for a long day with her great-uncle; but her mother had not gone. Margery did not like the sea. She had been free—planned to be free—of Auna and her uncle—for many hours. And Winter was in Plymouth.