"It's no business of mine," said Jeremy. "All the same, I see what you mean. If I get a chance, I'll speak to her. I'm cruel sorry about all this. It's become a matter of religion in my mother's mind, or else things might be possible I dare say."
"No religion denies a man the right to do his duty, whatever he's been."
"I'll mention it and see how she looks at it. Not that you can expect any of us to trouble about you, or your duty either. No member of my family ever stood between a man and his duty, all the same. My parents may not have looked at it in that light. Money's money every time. If I don't know that, who should?"
"It is her money and her children's after her."
The other considered.
"Strictly between ourselves," he said, "I may tell you I don't see quite eye to eye with my mother in this affair. Men take a larger view than women and, of course, there's two sides to every question. My parents are getting on and, in the course of nature—well, as far as Margery's concerned she's provided for; but I am not. You've got to be worldly-wise with a wife and family and—in a word, nothing is yet settled about me and Jane. My mother's been far too upset by these disasters to think about us. But the time has come when we've got to be thought about. Yes, I'll talk to Margery. She may not look at it exactly like mother. Jane says that Margery doesn't. I don't know. I seldom see her. And—well, they talk of going into their villa residence at the end of the year; and nothing settled about the business. To forgive is human after all. There's somebody coming. You'd better turn here, afore they see who it is. I'll keep it in mind. I'll get speech with her next time she comes to see us, and try to find if she feels anything in particular."
"On the general question—not only money—the general question of a possible reconciliation. Thank you gratefully."
Jeremy quickened his pace, and Jacob stopped and turned back. He guessed that the other had become thus amenable through some private inspiration bearing on his own welfare; but the motive mattered not. He had said great things—words beyond measure heartening to Jacob. For, if Margery did not echo her mother; if Jane had actually recorded that important fact, then hope surely existed. That being so, let him but break down one of the barriers, and the rest might presently fall. He believed that much might come of this meeting, if Jeremy kept his promise, and for a time the thought exalted him.
In this mood he passed Samuel Winter returning home with 'Turk.' Before them opened a field over which ran a footpath—a short cut to Shipley Bridge—and Jacob, though Samuel never now acknowledged him save with a snort and a scowl, held open the gate for the bull and wished the man good evening.
He received no response, however, beyond an unfriendly gleam from Sammy's heavy eyes; then he pushed on to cross the meadow, and quickly forgot Adam's brother under the weight of his own thoughts. He was, however, speedily reminded. The meadow extended for two hundred yards, with the river, under a steep bank, on the west of it, and a stone wall, where ran the road, to the east. Road and river met at Shipley Bridge and here the field narrowed to a point, where stood another gate for cattle and carts, and a stile for foot passengers.
Then it was that Sammy walking thirty yards behind Jacob won his inspiration and acted upon it, with lightning rapidity. The supreme enemy stood at his mercy for one minute, and between them stalked a formidable engine of destruction. Samuel well knew what to do, for he remembered once how a man, flinging away a lucifer match at a show, had dropped it on 'Turk's' neck, and how the bull had behaved on that occasion. He was firmly tethered at the time, otherwise some lives had paid forfeit. Now Samuel shook out his pipe upon the monster's back and loosed the rope from the ring in his nose. The fire stung and 'Turk' responded. His head went up. He was conscious of assault and, at the same time, perceived a man thirty yards ahead of him. He protested audibly, to Samuel's regret, then put down his head and in a royal rage charged the unconscious Jacob, where he walked deep in thought. But for the shrill, warning bellow of the beast, he had been doomed and must have been struck almost at the moment he became conscious of the peril; but he heard, looked round, saw the angry bull and its keeper, and, with a start of thirty yards, began to run. His legs, however, could not save him and he hesitated, while he ran, as to whether the wall or the river promised the better chance. He stood midway between them and decided for the stream, since once over the bank he would be safe, while at the wall he must needs lose vital moments before he could climb it. The bull was very near—nearer than he knew—and Jacob unconsciously saved himself by a sudden swerve to the left, for as he twisted, his enemy went past so close that its left, lowered horn tore his breeches. He still had near thirty yards to go and the bull pulled up and doubled almost as fast as the man; but now, alive to his danger, Jacob ran amazingly fast for one of his age and size. He took a straight line to the river and just reached the bank two yards before his pursuer. He plunged straight on, ignorant of what might be beneath and 'Turk' stopped with his fore feet on the brink. There he trampled and screamed, but was unsighted and did not mark the enemy, who had fallen through a thicket of alder overhanging the river a dozen feet below.
Bullstone might have escaped with nothing but a wetting and bad shaking, but for the unfortunate accident of a dead tree stump. This heavy snag extended over a pool and he fell across it and turned a somersault into six feet of water. He had, however, struck the tree trunk with his right leg and broken his thigh. He heard the snap and knew that a bone was gone; but he kept his nerve and, guessing that the bull had been set upon him, could not tell whether Samuel Winter might not descend and finish the murder he had planned. He stopped in the water therefore and floating down with the stream, holding himself up by the bank, reached the cover of an overhanging ledge and remained beneath it motionless.
Samuel, however, was content with his achievement. He looked over, saw no sign of the enemy, doubted not that he was drowned and roared with laughter. Then he turned to the heaving bull, slapped its neck, kissed its nose, and heaped affectionate curses upon it. Presently, thrusting his rope through the monster's ring, he led it away.
Jacob heard him go, but found that without the water to support him he could not stand. His leg was powerless and he felt the broken bone probing the flesh. He crawled out on the farther bank of the river and lay flat. He felt faint at the unfamiliar exertion and suffered pain also; but he waited for some time, not daring to lift his voice until Samuel might be out of hearing. The terrible incident seemed not particularly dreadful to him. Sudden death offered no terrors; yet he was thankful to live, for he desired much to happen before he died. Death, indeed, might be already upon him, for he felt very ill; but his mind remained clear. He could find it in him to sorrow for Adam Winter before this disaster. This would bring more suffering upon him, for the madman might have to be shut up.
It was thanks to Samuel himself that the broken man endured but a short suspense. Jacob had determined to raise no alarm until good space of time had passed; and before he lifted his voice assistance came, for Samuel, returning home in great glee, put up the bull, then told his aunt of the adventure.
"I've done for the beastly man," he said. "Bully went for him and horched his thigh and just missed him by a hair, then he ran for the river and Turk after him like a long-dog,[1] and in went Bullstone, tail over head, and was drowned, thank the watching Lord! A good day's work and may I never do a worse."
[1]Long-dog—Greyhound.
Amelia listened and took good care not to condemn Samuel, for censure was gall to him. She left him at his tea a moment later and ran for Adam, who was milking. Thus it happened that within half an hour of his downfall, Jacob saw Winter running over the field, heard his shout and answered him.
In less than another half hour Adam had brought round a flat-bottomed pig-cart with blankets and pillows. Two men assisted him and Bullstone was lifted as gently as might be. Then Winter himself drove the injured man to Brent cottage hospital, while a labourer proceeded to Red House with the news.
Jacob's illness followed a straightforward and satisfactory course. It offered no marked features and awoke interest rather for its cause, than itself, or the sufferer. A week after he was known to be on the way to recovery, his wife went to see her brother. Jeremy had, after the accident, kept his mouth shut and taken no steps to advance her husband's hopes, but to-day Margery herself spoke such words as none had yet heard from her.
Bullstone's disastrous adventure did not lack for dramatic telling in Auna's version. For once she demanded to speak of her father, and she quickened her description with many tears. Nor could the event fail to deepen Margery's own emotions. She was not built to maintain an obdurate attitude to any experience, and whatever her present angle of vision, after speech with her mother, her spirit quickened and her flesh yearned. There seemed only one place for her at this time; and that was at her husband's bedside; there offered only one seemly channel of duty: to be nursing him. Life was short. She hungered terribly for an understanding and sympathetic spirit to help her at this crisis, and found that, after all, despite the tragedy of his long outrage and cruel assault, her husband was still nearest, and still quickest to reach the depths of her. Then thought, advancing upon this conviction, painted a new and another Jacob. She was aware that the whole world set sternly against him and, misreading the attempted murder, suspected that, perhaps, even Adam Winter might not have forgiven him. Surely it must have been some fiery word from Adam that prompted Samuel to his attempt. Yet there she hesitated and, on second thoughts, remembered Adam better. Doubtless he had pardoned long ago; but mad Samuel none the less echoed the people, and she knew, from what her father had told her, that the country side was more interested in Jacob's disaster than regretful of it. Their sole regret went out for the brother and the aunt of the man responsible.
Now, despondent and bewildered, Margery found some comfort in talking openly to her brother and his wife.
She took tea with them on a Sunday and was unguarded and indifferent as to what they might say, or think, of her opinion. They perceived the change in her and set it down to Jacob's situation; but though that had largely served to stimulate Margery and offer a point for argument with her parents, it did not account for the radical and growing operations of her soul. The inevitable had happened, and with all its sorrows and trials, she yet wanted back her life as it was, sanctified to her by custom. She yearned for the home that she had made and her spirit could rise to no other. She was changed, weakened a little mentally, as well as much physically, by her experiences, more frightened of life and less desirous to face it. Now she longed only for quiet—to be secluded and hidden away, forgotten and left alone. She did not dread solitude, silence, peace any more. She desired them before all things and wearied inexpressibly of the noise of the street, the bustle of business and the din of activity round about her. Among the many facts learned with increasing certainty, was the assurance that she would soon sicken and die, cooped here under the eyes of her parents—an object of pity for her father, of triumph for Judith.
These convictions she voiced to Jane, and whimsically lamented that situation which all just persons supposed she was most thankful to have escaped for ever.
"Time blots out the bad and leaves the good still to remind you," she said. "You may not believe it, but it is so. I always remember the happy things and slip the unhappy. It's not only things that happen, but people that made them happen. Get far enough away from people, and you find the parts in them you hate grow dimmer and the parts you like grow brighter. That's why the natural feeling is to speak kindly of the dead. We generally feel kindly to them. At least I do."
"It's true," declared Jane. "When anybody's dead, part of 'em always rises up again on people's tongues, and we don't speak well of them who are dead only because they are dead and can't defend themselves, but because time, as you say, Margery, keeps the good and lets the bad go. I can say it to you and Jeremy, though I wouldn't to anybody else. Take your own mother. I always feel ever so much kinder to her when I escape from hearing her, or seeing her for a week or so."
"You oughtn't to say that, Jane," declared her husband. "It's a very doubtful speech."
"Not it," she answered. "No use pretending. You don't see your mother like the rest of the world, because she don't see you like the rest of the world. And Margery's right. If she don't know, who should?"
"Ask yourself, Jane. You're married and have got plenty of sense to see things. Suppose Jeremy and you was parted for some great, terrible deed done by him: a bee in Jeremy's bonnet, for which he was sorry enough. And suppose, with time, you hadn't only forgiven him, as a Christian, but really and truly, as a wife and a woman. And suppose everything—everything that had made your life, and that you'd made of your life, was taken away, and you were left stranded. What would it be to you?"
"Hell," said Jane frankly. "There's no other word for it."
"And what would you do, Jeremy, if that had happened to you?" continued his sister. "Would you feel that, for her soul's sake, Jane must never come back to you?"
"I'm glad to say no such thing could happen to me, and it's idle worrying to think what you'd do if a thing happened that can't happen," answered the man. "And now you're here, it will be good for you to get away from your own vexations for a bit and lend a hand with mine. And first I may tell you that I've seen your husband that was."
"Seen him? Oh, Jeremy!"
"Keep it dark. I didn't seek him. He cornered me and would talk. Don't think I yielded about it. Not at all. I was firm as a rock with him, because, of course, mother's dead right in that matter; but there it is. Jacob Bullstone was very wishful indeed to get into touch with you, and seemed to think he had a right. But I hit out from the shoulder fearlessly, and he heard my honest opinion of him and so on. However, I'm a man of the world notwithstanding, and nobody knows how difficult the world is better than I do. So up to a certain point and, well within my conscience, I may do as I'm done by in the matter."
Margery regarded him with parted lips.
"He wants to see me?"
"I was the last to have speech with him before he was smashed, and there's no doubt he had a near squeak of his life. I remember Amelia Winter telling me years ago, when I was a huckster, that in the case of Samuel Winter, as a young child, it was a great question whether he'd turn out amazingly clever, or weak in his head. Unfortunately he proved one of the Lord's own, and now, since this business, Adam feels it a difficult question whether Sammy didn't ought to be put away. Why I tell you this is because I'm coming to the point, and that is our mother's fine rule of life that nothing happens by chance."
"Go on," said Margery.
"Well, granted nothing happens by chance, then we've got the satisfaction of knowing we are doing Heaven's will from morning till night. Therefore, if you help me in a vital matter and I help you in a vital matter, we're both doing Heaven's will; and whatever came of it, mother would be the first to confess it was so."
"Lord, Jeremy!" cried Jane. "D'you mean to say——"
"I mustn't come into it," explained Jeremy. "I don't say I'll lift a hand; but I do say that, if it was established that Jane and I go to the post-office when the old people retire, I should feel a great deal clearer in my mind and kinder to the world at large. It is high time I had a bit of light on that subject, and I'm a good deal puzzled the light hasn't shone. I've been hoping a long time to hear we was to go in, and so I feel that you might find good and useful work ready to your hand in that matter, Margery. And—and one good turn deserves another. That's well within a clear conscience."
"A 'good' turn—yes," declared Jane doubtfully.
"It would be a good turn if I decide to help Margery, because we must all do as the Lord intends, and therefore it couldn't be a bad one," explained the casuist. "In a word, if Margery impressed upon mother that the right and proper thing was to trust the business and the post-office to us, that might determine the point. As a matter of fact I'm uneasy. Father's been into Plymouth more than once of late and, of course, they're looking ahead. They always do."
"They are," answered Margery, "and I'll tell you something. Mother wants you and Jane to take over the business—under father. And father, seeing you've never stuck to nothing in your life, feels very doubtful if you're the man. They differ."
"Just as I thought," murmured Jeremy, "and some people might be vexed with their fathers; but that's only to waste time. So there it is. You're all powerful with father—eh, Margery?—and surely to God you know Jane and me well enough to know mother is right."
Margery perceived the nature of the bargain. She believed with Jeremy that their father was to be won. Indeed he sometimes came near yielding to Judith's steadfast conviction. She might very possibly settle the point in her brother's favour; but what could he do for her? Nothing with her parents. The problems that had looked vague and, indeed, had never been considered in her mind before, now rose and began to take a definite shape, Until now nothing but a dim, undefined desire for something that must not be—for something her parents held unthinkable—had stolen through her mind and settled over it, like a sad fog. She had accepted the situation and supposed that the craving for some return to vanished conditions was at best weakness, at worst evil. Yet now she had moved beyond that point to an acute nostalgia. Jacob's tribulation was augmented by the startling news that he desired to see her. She found comfort in Jeremy's sophistries, but knew, even while he uttered them in his mother's words, that they echoed anything but his mother's spirit. Jeremy was a humbug, as charming people are so apt to be; but the fact still remained: nothing happened but what Providence planned.
She began to think of details and they made her giddy. To move from secret wishes to open words was enough for one day. She had never dared to be so explicit, and her confession in the ear of sympathetic Jane comforted her. But her constitutional timidity, developed much of late, now drew her in.
What could Jeremy do? Deeds were not in Jeremy's line. Time must pass. Jacob must get well again—then, perhaps—she would see how she felt then. He might change his mind. Possibly he only wanted to mention some trifle. Margery doubted whether her present emotions were healthy or dangerous; then she fell back on her brother's affairs.
"You've given me something to think about; and I will think of it," she said.
"And Jeremy shall think of what you've told us," promised Jane, "for I'll remind him to do so."
"The thing is the greatest good to the greatest number," declared Jeremy. "That's always been my rule and always will be. And clearly the greatest good to me and my wife and children lies at the post-office. Others see it beside us. As for your greatest good, Margery—that's a very difficult question."
"I know it. I hope I haven't said too much; but you'll forgive me if I have. I feel—I feel, somehow, that I ought to see my husband, if he still wishes it."
"You would," answered Jane, "and so would any nice woman feel the same."
"That's the point," argued Jeremy. "You may be right, or you may be wrong. But the general opinion is that you show what a fine creature you are by keeping away from him. Why don't you put it to mother?"
"Put it to a man," advised Jane. "Ax parson. It's a free country and though we're all Chosen Fews, that don't prevent parson from being a very sensible chap. Or, if you don't like the thought of him, try somebody else."
But Margery gave no promise. She went home vaguely heartened and determined at least to work for Jeremy. She felt, indeed, that what he desired would be sure to happen presently without any word from her; still to work for him was good. She had nobody to work for now.
Next morning she went to chapel with Mrs. Huxam and, finding herself brave afterwards, actually followed Jeremy's suggestion and gave Judith a shock of unexpected pain.
"Mother," she said. "I've got great thoughts and you should hear them. We can't think anything we're not meant to think, and now my thoughts have taken a turn. You know how it was with me. After our trouble I didn't want to live; I'd have been glad to shut my eyes and sleep and never wake up. Then I got better and braver. And then I grew to miss the life of my home terribly, because, whatever the cause, to be wrenched out of the little holding of your days must hurt. And so I got worse again—body and mind. And now I've looked on and asked myself about it."
"Better you looked still farther on and put away all that joins you to the past. That I've told you more than once, Margery."
"You have; but I can't do it. You can't forget your whole married life and your motherhood and the father of your children. If you do, there's nothing left for a woman. And I've come to see this very clearly. I'm Jacob's wife."
"No longer in the Lord's sight."
"Let me speak. I'm Jacob's wife; and what I'm sure now is that Jacob is a very different man from what he was. God Almighty has changed Jacob, and the poison that did these dreadful things is poured out, and he's left, like the man from whom the devil was drawn by Jesus Christ. Mother, when first I even thought about Red House, I felt shame and dursn't tell you, for I feared the longing to see it again came from the devil. Now I don't feel shame, and I know the longing don't come from the devil. There's duty to be done there yet."
"Thank God you've told me this," answered Judith, "for we've got to do some fierce fighting, I fear. Not the devil? Why, I see his claws, Margery!
"'Tis his last and deadliest stroke, to make his temptation look like duty and come before you clothed like an angel of light. An old trick that's snapped many a soul. Never, never do you hide your thoughts from me, Margery, after this."
"But wait. Suppose, by forgiving in act as well as heart, I went back presently. Then I might save Jacob himself."
"Oh, the cunning of the Enemy—the craft—the sleepless cleverness! No, you can't save Jacob Bullstone; but you can lose yourself. There's always the chance of losing yourself while breath is in your body, and Lucifer knows it, and he'll often win at the last gasp on a man's deathbed. He's proud, remember, and his pride leads him to try the difficult things. Can't you see? How is it so few can see the net he weaves, while the lotion of the Gospel's at everybody's hand to wash their eyes clear if they would? He's vain as a peacock and likes to do the difficult things and catch the souls in sight of Heaven's gates. I know; I read him; not many women have conned over his ways like I have. And now he's saying 'Jacob Bullstone is mine—a gift from his youth up—and there's no cleverness in keeping your own; but the woman he's cast down is not mine.' And your soul would be worth the winning. And what's cleverer than to make you think you can save your doomed husband's soul when, to try, would be to lose your own? You'd best to pray on your knees about this and call loudly on your Saviour. I'm a lot put about to hear of such dreadful thoughts. They've crept in through the chinks in the armour of salvation, Margery, and you must look to it this instant moment."
"There's a human side, mother. The man has been called to face death. He lies there in hospital and——"
"And where did he fling you to lie? Where was hospital for the ills you have suffered and the death you have died? There is a human side, and to return good for evil is our duty; but there's a higher duty than that. Don't argue. I know all about the human side; but humanity was never yet called upon to risk its immortality and hope of salvation. I'll hear no more touching this at all, Margery. I'm suffering for you a good bit. I've failed to make the truth clear seemingly."
"No, no, you haven't failed. I know how you view it."
"Set your trust where only trust can be set," said Mrs. Huxam, "and trust your God, like a little child, to show you, in His good time, how your future life's got to go. And first He wills for you to get up your health of mind and body. Your mind before everything. Your body's nought; but your mind's sick—far, far sicker than I thought—and we must see to it. There's fighting to be done and we'll fight. I thought all that was over; but the devil smells a sick soul, like a cat smells fish, and I might have known there was danger lurking."
They returned home, to find that somebody had called upon Margery's mother. Old William Marydrew awaited them in his Sunday black.
Margery he welcomed kindly, though she responded in doubt; but Mrs. Huxam, who knew the ancient man for her son-in-law's friend, showed open suspicion and seemed little inclined to grant the speech he begged.
"I've no quarrel with you," she said, "and I very well remember your godly daughter, for Mercy Marydrew had the light; but——"
"The better the day the better the deed," ventured Billy. "Don't stand against me till you've heard me. I don't come from Mr. Bullstone. I'm here on my own—for a friendly tell—and I hope you'll respect my age and give ear to what I'd like to say."
Mr. Huxam, who had been talking to William until his wife's return, supported the proposition.
"Hear him, Judy," he said. "Nobody's ever heard nothing from William that he shouldn't hear, but on the contrary, much that was well worth hearing. Wisdom like his, when it's mellow and not turned sour, as wisdom will with some old folk, be all to the good. We'll go into the kitchen and see after dinner and leave you to it."
He departed with Margery, and Mrs. Huxam took off her black thread gloves and blew her nose.
"Speak then," she said, "and take the easy-chair. I'm not one to deny respect and attention to any religious-minded man; but I warn you that there are some things don't admit of dragging up. You understand."
William plunged at once into the great matter of his visit.
"Single-handed I come," he said, "and I wish I was cleverer and better skilled to bend speech to my purpose; but you must allow for that. In a word, there's a general feeling in a good few minds that Jacob Bullstone is indecent and blameworthy to want his wife to go back to him; while, against that, in a good few other, well-meaning minds—women as well as men—there's a feeling it might be a very decent thing to happen, and wouldn't hasten the end of the world anyway. And I, for one, incline to think the same."
"The end of the world's not our business," said Judith, "but the souls of ourselves and our children and grand-children are our business. You strike in on ground where I've just been treading, and I'm very sorry to hear you can say what you have said. Whether it's indecent and blameworthy for Jacob Bullstone to want his wife don't matter at all. What those doomed to eternal death want, or don't want, is nought. But we've got to think of the living, and we've got to save the souls that are still open to be saved."
"Certainly; and who, under God, has the right to damn woman, or child, or man, or mouse, my dear? I saw Bullstone in hospital yesterday, and seeing and hearing him, it came over me like a flame of fire to have a word with you, because well I know you are the turning point—the angel of life, or death I might say—to these two. Everything depends upon you seemingly—or so he reckons. You hold their future lives in your hand. That's a lot to say, but not too much. And I should much like to hear your point of view on this high subject. Bullstone, I must tell you, have suffered a very great deal, and his eyes are opened to his lunatic act. He was just as mad every bit as Sammy Winter, who set the bull on him to mangle him. Just as mad, my dear; but with a far worse sort of madness; and yet a madness that can be cured, which Sammy's can't in this world. And afore the God we both obey, I tell you that Jacob is cured. His sufferings have been all you could wish, and his broken thigh, and so on, was nothing in comparison. He's gone through tortures that make his broken bones no worse than a cut finger; and I want you to understand that he's long ways different from what he was, Mrs. Huxam, and an object for good Christian forgiveness all round. And now you tell me what you think about it?"
Judith looked, almost with pity, at the ancient prattler. It seemed to her that such people as Mr. Marydrew could hardly have more souls to save, or lose, than a bird on a bough. They were apparently innocent and went through the world, like unconscious creatures, doing neither harm nor good. But Billy suddenly appeared in harmful guise. It was as though an amiable, domestic animal had showed its teeth, threatened attack and became a danger.
"You're touching subjects a thought too deep for your intellects, Mr. Marydrew, if you'll excuse me for saying so," she began.
"Don't say that. I venture to think——"
"You think, but I know. I know that no man or woman can interfere between Jacob Bullstone and his Maker, or undo what's done. For once even the doubtful sense of the world at large sees it. A child could see it. My daughter has come to the gate of salvation by a bitter road, like many do. She's faced great sufferings and escaped awful perils; but she's through the gate; it's fast home behind her, and she ain't going to open it again to her death—be sure of that. He dares to want to see her, and you say he's changed. But, after you've done some things, it's too late to change. He's lost. Why? Because, like a lot of this generation, he's listened to false teachers and thought the Powers of Evil were growing weak. To hear some people, you'd think the devil was no more than a scarecrow set up to frighten the world into the paths of goodness."
"True," admitted Billy. "It was so with me. Looking back I can plainly see, as a lad, the fear of Old Nick had a lot more to do with my keeping straight than love of God. God was above my highest imaginings. I only knew He was wishful to get me into Heaven some day, if I gave Him half a chance. But the devil seemed much nearer and much more of a live person. Somehow you find that bad folk always are nearer and more alive than good ones—don't you?"
"Because we all know bad people and have every chance to see them misbehaving," said Mrs. Huxam, "but good people are rare, and always will be."
"I wouldn't say that. I'm so hopeful that I rather share the growing opinion against hell. I believe the next generation will knock the bottom out of hell, my dear, because they'll find something better. There's a lot of things far better than in my youth, and new love be better than ancient fear. Grant that and you can't say Jacob's down and out. He's a very penitent man, and he's turned to God most steadfast of late, and it would be a great triumph for the mercy of God, his Maker, if he came through, and a great sign of the Almighty's power in human hearts."
She regarded Billy with mild interest, but hardly concealed her contempt.
"And you in sight of your grave and your judgment, and so wrong in opinions," she said. "'A sign?' Yes. This generation seeks after a sign no doubt; and that's an impious thing to do at any time. And I dare say the day is not very far off when it will get the sign it deserves. D'you know what you're doing, you perilous old man? You're trying to hold back the mills of God—you, that know so little of the truth, that you can say the bottom's going to be knocked out of hell! I didn't ought to listen, I reckon, for from your own mouth you've told me you are with the fallen ones, and I never thought the father of Mercy Marydrew had missed salvation. But 'tis a very true thing that most of us are judged out of our mouths. No devil! Poor soul! Poor, lost soul! But, such is the will of God, that I see clearer and clearer how only them that have escaped Satan know him for what he is. The world lies in his keeping, and the people don't know no more what has caught them than the fish in a net. But I know. I see his ways and his awful art. I see him as he is—black—black—and you can smell the smeech of him when some people are talking. And not the swearers and lewd ones only, but many, as think, like you, they are doing God's work. That's the last and awfulest trick of him, William Marydrew—to make his work look like God's."
Billy was amused and distracted from the object of his visit.
"My!" he said. "Blessed if I thought there was anybody in Brent knew such a lot about Old Nick as you do, Mrs. Huxam. A proper witch doctor you be! But even the saved make mistakes. 'Tis on the cards you may be wrong, and I hope you are. You'm terrible high-minded, but them that want to be high-minded must be single-minded, and the clever ones often come to grief. You know a lot too much about the Black Man, and I'd like to hear who told you. But be that as it may, there's a very fine thing called mercy—come now."
"There is," said Mrs. Huxam, "or the bolt would fall a lot oftener than it does. Mercy belongs to God, else heaven would be empty when the Trump sounds; but there's also such a thing as justice, and justice is man's business. He can leave mercy where it belongs and not dare to think of such a thing when a sinner falls. For that's to know better than Him that made the sinner. Justice is what we understand, because our Maker willed that we should. Our first parents had their taste of justice, and justice is within our reach. To talk of showing mercy to the wicked as you do, is to say a vain thing and range yourself against justice. Only through justice can come hope for any of us, William Marydrew. Our business is to do justly and not pander with evil, or try to touch the thing with merciful hands."
"And that's what life have taught you," murmured Billy. "And you thrive and keep pretty well on it. I've always heard you was a wonder, my dear, but how wonderful I never did guess. Now tell me, is Adam Winter, who be of the Chosen Few, in the right to forgive the man that did him so much harm, or in the wrong?"
They talked for an hour, then, weary and conscious that Mrs. Huxam was not made of material familiar to him, William rose and went his way.
"No offence given where none is taken, I hope. I'm sorry you can't see it might be a vitty thing for husband and wife to come together in fulness of time; because if you can't see it, it won't happen perhaps. But turn over the thought, like the good woman you are, and if the Lord should say that mercy ain't beyond human power, after all—well, listen."
"You needn't tell me to listen, Mr. Marydrew. I'm sorry for your blindness and I'm sorry for your deafness, but I see clear and I hear clear still."
"Good day then. No doubt it takes all sorts to make a world."
"Yes," answered she, "but only one sort to make a heaven."
He laughed genially.
"Then I hope they won't knock the bottom out of hell, after all, else where should us of the common staple go? Must spend eternity somewhere."
"Scratch a sinner and the devil always peeps out," thought Mrs. Huxam as William departed.
A week later William visited Jacob in hospital. He was nearing recovery, but now knew that he might be lame for the rest of his life. The sufferer felt indifferent; but he cherished minor grievances and grumbled to his friend.
"Only Auna ever comes to see me. Would you believe that? Not once has John Henry visited me, and only once, Avis—and her marriage, that I've agreed to, and the farm that I've given her and all!" he said.
"Young lovers be selfish toads," explained William; "think nothing of it. I believe Avis will prove a better daughter after marriage than before. She's the sort will get sweeter with ripeness. For John Henry there's no excuse. I'll talk to him some day and open his eyes. But the great truth is that their amazing grandmother be more to your children than their own parents. A mystery, Jacob; but the ways of blood are always a mystery. The dead will come to live in their havage[1] and pass on the good and bad qualities alike. 'Tis a pity Providence don't look to it that only the good be handed down; because then the breed of men and women would be a lot better by now than they are; but all qualities are part and parcel, and even goodness often takes narrowness and coldness of heart along with it."
[1]Havage—offspring.
"Margery's heart was never cold."
"But her mother's—her mother's, Jacob! I may tell you now that I carried out a little plot in that quarter and went to see Mrs. Huxam on a Sabbath. I had in my mind that at my great age and with my well-known good character, I might influence her; because in a few other directions I've talked round high-minded people and showed 'em that, as things are, nought could be hopefuller than for you and your wife to come together again."
"You meant well as you always do, Billy."
"An Old Testament fashion of woman is your mother-in-law. The faith that would move mountains. It's a good thing that she hasn't got much power, for she'd use it in a very uncomfortable fashion if she had. A great, mournful wonder in the land. She's like a sloe-bush, Jacob: the older she grows, the sharper her thorns and the poorer her fruit. I came away with my tail between my legs, I assure you. I was dust in the wind afore her."
"She'll never change."
"Never. Wild horses wouldn't make her change. Hell comforts her, same as heaven comforts us, and there's no fear the fires would go out if she had the stoking."
"The littleness of her—the littleness of her!" cried Jacob. "Can't she see that all this talk is nothing to tortured flesh and blood? Her power lies in the weakness and ignorance of other people. Hear this, William: my wife would see me and listen to me, if her mother allowed it. And when I know that—to Auna she whispered it—in a weak moment—still Auna heard—and when I know that, what's hell or heaven to me? They must be nothing, anyway, to a man who has done what I've done—to a man who has brought such sorrow on the earth as I have. What is eternity to one who's wasted all his time? The things I might have done—the happiness I might have given—the good I might have wrought! Instead, I break the heart of the best, truest woman ever a man had for wife. What can alter that? Can eternity alter it? Can heaven make it better, or hell make it worse? Nothing can change it but what happens here—here—before it's too late. And Judith Huxam is going to confound all—just that one, old woman, poisoned by religion, as much as I was poisoned by jealousy."
"A very great thought, Jacob," admitted Mr. Marydrew. "We be in the hand of principalities and powers, and mystery hides our way, look where we will. But we must trust. Everything is on the move, and the Lord can touch the hardest heart."
"Hearts are nothing, William. The head governs the world, and great, blind forces govern the head. Blind forces, driving on, driving over us, like the wheel over the mole by night; and despite our wits and our power of planning and looking ahead and counting the cost, we can't withstand them. They run over us all."
"We can't withstand 'em; but the God who made 'em can," answered William. "Be patient still and trust the turn of the lane. You be paying the wages of your sin, Jacob; you be paying 'em very steady and regular; and I hope that a time will come when you'll be held to have paid in full. We never know how much, or how little our Maker calls us to pay for our mistakes. You may have very near rubbed off the score by God's mercy; for He's well known for a very generous creditor and never axes any man to pay beyond his powers."
He chattered on and, from time to time, patted Jacob's big hand, that lay on the counterpane of his bed.
The sick man thanked him presently and then there came Peter, to see his father on business. He asked after Jacob's health and expressed satisfaction to know that he was making progress. Having received necessary instructions, he went his way and William praised him.
"There's more humanity in Peter than there is in my eldest," admitted Peter's father.
He grew calmer before Billy left him and promised to keep his soul in patience.
"First thing you've got to do is to get well and up on your legs again against the wedding," urged William.
"I hope much from it," answered Jacob. "I'm planning to beg Barlow Huxam to see me on the subject. That's reasonable—eh?"
"Very reasonable indeed. He's one with a good deal of sense to him. In fact the man as have lived all his life with your mother-in-law must have qualities out of the common," declared William. "But he haven't neighboured with that amazing character all these years for nothing. How much of his soul he calls his own, you may know better than me. 'Tis a case of Aaron's rod swallowing the lesser, and he won't gainsay Mrs. Huxam in anything, I'm afraid."
When he was gone, one thought of a comforting character remained with the sick man. He had been much daunted with the tremendous moral significance of the opinion of the world and its crushing censure. It had weakened resolution and increased his self-condemnation. Now his friend was able to assert that public emotion grew quieter against him; that even, in some quarters, he had won an admission it might be reasonable for husband and wife to come together again. This fact soothed Bullstone, for like many, who do not court their fellow-creatures, he had been, none the less, sensitive of their opinions and jealous of their approval. Herein, therefore, appeared hope. He felt grateful to his old companion, who, among so many words that to Jacob meant no comfort, was yet able to drop this salutary consolation. He much desired to tell Auna, who had long been the recipient of all his confidences and made older than her years by them.
After Margery knew her husband's desires, she was animated fitfully to make an effort and return. But she lacked strength to do any such thing single-handed. She had been losing vitality, yet so gradually, that none about her appeared conscious of the fact. Even Auna saw her too often to appreciate it. The girl came every week, but won no further opportunity to see her mother alone. She opposed a sulky obstinacy to her grandmother and Judith began to fear for her.
Then Margery saw her brother again and, with even less reticence than on a former occasion, appealed to him. She had kept her original contract and succeeded in winning her father. It was understood that Jeremy and Jane would take over the post-office and the draper's shop, when the Huxams went to their private house; and Jeremy, now accustomed to the idea, argued that his sister had really not influenced the decision and that she might not, therefore, fairly ask him to assist her present project. In fact he much desired to be off the bargain, and but for Jane, would have evaded it. She showed him, however, that this might not honourably be done and, with very ill grace, Margery's brother listened to her purpose.
"I must go back when he does," explained Jacob's wife. "He's made a good recovery, and can walk on crutches, and will soon be able to travel with a stick. And the next thing will be the wedding, I suppose; and I ought to be at my home for that. Because such a thing will break the ice and help all round—at least so I feel and hope. I must go back, Jeremy. I'm called stronger and stronger to it, and mother's awful ideas don't trouble me no more. I've gone much farther than to forgive Jacob now. He's been very near death and I ask myself what I'd have felt. But all that's my business. What I beg from you, Jeremy, is just practical help—to meet me by night with your trap, unbeknownst to any living thing but ourselves, and drive me back."
"I don't like it—I hate it," he answered. "It's not a religious action and I'm very doubtful indeed if it's a wise one even from a worldly point of view. The excitement will certainly be terrible bad for you, because you're in no state at all to stand it."
"It may be kill or cure; but I'd far rather face it than go on like this—seeing my bones come through my skin and my hair fail me. It'll soon be now or never; but I do think, if I get back quietly and quickly, I'll build up again and be some good to my family. I'm only sorry for mother."
Jeremy exploited the ethical objections.
"You see, Margery, it's quite as difficult for me as for you. As a matter of fact you're putting a great charge on my conscience, because I've got to go contrary to mother and behind her back—a thing I've never yet done—and feeling as I do that she is right——"
"You've promised," interrupted Jane. "You promised to lend Margery a hand if she helped you; and she did help you. And it's humbug to say you never hid anything behind your mother's back, my dear man. What about it when you married me?"
"I'm talking to Margery, not you," he replied, "and I was going to say that somebody else might help her in the details much better than I could. You see some think she's right, and such as them would do this with a much better appetite than I shall. How if I was to drop a hint and get another man to do it, Margery? It would be just the same to you and a good bit pleasanter for me."
"There's nobody but you," she answered, "and it's properly unkind if you're going back on your promise."
"He isn't," declared Jane with diplomacy. "He's a lot too fearless and a lot too good a brother for that."
"I wouldn't say I promised; but of course if you feel I did——" continued Jeremy. "However I've got rather a bright idea, and since you're firm about this, and nobody will thank God better than your husband if you do go back, then why not let him do it? That would be a natural seemly arrangement since you both think alike. I'm perfectly willing to go to him and tell him."
"No," said Margery. "That would upset everything I've planned. My return must be a surprise for a thousand reasons. I want to go back as I came out. In plain words, I've got to escape mother to go at all. Set like steel as she is against any truck with Jacob, I have no choice but to deceive her. I'm too weak to carry it off with a high hand, and she'd stop me if she guessed I was thinking of it. Only I can't, of course, walk to Red House, and so I must be drove; and you must drive me."
"If you're a man, you will, Jeremy," added Jane. "You promised."
"I bargain, then, that my part never comes out," said Jeremy, much perturbed. "I consider this is something of a trap I'm in, and I don't think much the better of you for it, Margery. And I believe you're courting a pack of trouble, not to speak of Everlasting punishment if you go back to such a man. But since you won't let me out, I'll do as you wish on the one understanding, that my name's never whispered."
Neither Margery nor Jane, however, felt any sorrow for Jeremy.
"Thank you, then," said his sister. "It's only a question of waiting now till my husband's well enough to go home. Then you can fix up a night, and I'll husband my strength and come and meet you at Lydia Bridge, or somewhere out of the way. We might do better to go round under Brent Tor."
"We must leave the details for the present," said Jeremy, "and it will be needful to wait till the nights are longer and darker."
Jane changed the subject.
"What about Avis and Bob?" she asked. "Jacob counts on their wedding taking place from Red House—so Mr. Marydrew told me."
"It's going to be a difficult subject," answered Margery; "everything must be difficult till we begin again; and mother won't do anything to make it less difficult."
"Jacob naturally expects his daughter to be married from her home—and why not?" asked Jane.
"Because it isn't her home," explained Jeremy. "You can't talk of Red House being a home no longer, and mother's right there. Red House ceased to be a home when Margery left it."
"But if I was back that would be altered," declared Margery. "It all points to my going back. And mother will live to see it was right, if only for our children's sakes."
Jeremy, however, would not allow this.
"Don't fox yourself to think so. Your children haven't any use for their father and never will have. He's done for himself with them—all but Auna—and when she's old enough to see the sense of it, no doubt she will."
"Jeremy's right," said Jane. "You mustn't think that, Margery. The boys and Avis always did care a lot more for you than their father. They never hit it, and you knew it, if Jacob did not."
"He knew it very well; but it didn't alter his feeling for them. He'll do the right thing by all of them, however they treat him," argued the other.
"You may think so, but John Henry's a great fool for turning his father down as he does all the same," declared her brother. "The man's not made of patience, and as to justice, the less we say about justice the better, when we think of you and look at you now."
"I've told John Henry to see his father; I've told him half a dozen times on the quiet," said Margery. "For his own sake he should."
Elsewhere, by a coincidence, this very thing that they desired was happening, for John Henry had met Jacob's ancient friend and been firmly directed to pay his injured parent a visit. He obeyed, being the more inclined to do so for private ends; and while Bullstone first felt satisfaction at the visit, his pleasure presently waned, since it became apparent that not concern for his father alone had brought John Henry.
He hoped that Jacob was better; but this was not what interested him.
"'Tis a very good thing you weren't killed," he said, "and I expect you'll have the law of that lunatic and win this time. He didn't ought to be at large, for he's cunning and wicked. He may do something like this again and bring it off next time."
"I've gone through all that with Adam Winter, his brother. You needn't trouble on that score. It's all part and parcel of other things, and there's no fear that Samuel would assault anybody but me. I've told his brother that I won't take any step in the matter, or have him put away. He's not the only one who has been revenged against me, John Henry. At any rate he did it openly."
"It's all very wretched and I'm sick of the subject, and I wish it could be dropped," said his son; "and it's a thousand pities that you can't go farther off from Brent, or else mother can't be took away out of it. There's a talk of her going to Uncle Lawrence, and it would be a blessing if she did, for she's growing to a thread-paper and getting as weak as a rabbit. Of course you can't go, I suppose; but she might, and they ought to take her."
"Your mother's thin? So Auna says. It's a great grief to me."
"No business of mine anyway. But you must look after yourself nowadays, for there's nobody else to trouble about you, and I think I've a right to ask a few things, father."
"Certainly. Ask what you please, John Henry."
"Very well then. And first I'm very glad you've made such a good recovery, and I'd have come sooner but for the mountains of work. I hope you won't take it amiss, or think I'm pushing, or anything like that; but, with you, none of us ever know exactly where we're standing, because you do such unexpected things. I've always been a good son, I believe—quite so good a son as Avis is daughter, anyhow; and you've given her Owley, so I feel it's only fair, me being your eldest son, if I ask for Bullstone."
"Owley's my wedding gift to Avis. She's going to be married and going to live at Owley as you know; therefore it was a very good time to let her have it. You're not of age."
"I soon shall be; and the eldest ought to have Bullstone."
"Why in such a hurry? I haven't gone yet. Plenty of time."
"You let Avis have Owley."
"Fight against your mean greed," answered his father. "Even your grandmother won't approve lust for this world's goods. Go on with your work, learn your business and trust me for the future. Remember that I've got to think of others besides you. I've taken over Huntingdon for myself, because a time will come some day, when I'm old, that I may decree to live there—for the air and peace. And then, no doubt, you'll have Bullstone, and Peter will own the business at Red House. But there's Auna too. And I'm not past work yet."
"If you could give me a written, signed promise for Bullstone, I'd know where I stood."
"Give—give—give! And are you never to give? Are my children to receive always and return nothing—no duty, no love, no respect even? Have you ever thought what you owe to those who brought you into the world?"
"I owe no man any thing," answered John Henry without emotion. "And I never will. It's always the fashion, seemingly, for parents to make a fuss about what their children ought to do, and expect them to fall down and worship them. Why should I—just because you married and had a good time with mother? And, seeing what life is, I don't know that anybody need feel under any very great gratitude for being alive. It was all in the day's work that I was born; you didn't choose me, and a child don't owe a parent any thanks whatever for coming into the world. And so far as the rest is concerned, you've done your duty by me, and I've done my duty faithfully by you, and everybody. I've never given any trouble—never got into a scrape—always been straight and hard-working. And I deserve Bullstone and ought to have it."
"What does your mother say?"
"She's understood that the eldest son had it. But I can't talk of her to you, of course."
"Why not?"
"I'm mother's side, and God knows I wouldn't do nothing against her," he answered. "But this has nothing to do with her."
"How so, if all mine is hers?"
"She wouldn't take anything of yours, father, and never will. You talk as if nought had happened. You seem to forget. But you can't expect none of us to forget, while we see her every week. It's been a fearful thing—cruel for your children and everybody. It will never be forgot by mortal man I should think, and you can't expect any of us to be exactly the same again. We're honest and we've got our feelings and we've been through a lot. I'm sure you owe us something. And if you're not going to let me have Bullstone, you ought not to let Peter have the business. I'm your eldest son and——"
"Learn what your mother thinks and come to me again," directed his father. "All I have is hers, and it was always her wish, when first Avis got engaged, that she should take Owley for her portion. If she'd like for you to have Bullstone while I live, it can be. After your mother's self, there's only Auna to think about."
John Henry cheered up and promised to do as he was directed.
"I'm properly certain mother would say I ought to have it," he declared.
"I expect she would, and her word's my law. You'll be of age in less than a year, so things may happen as you would wish. But I don't transfer till the present lease has run out. It wouldn't do for you to own the farm on which you're being taught your business."
"I know my business. I know full as much as Bob Elvin, if not more. I've got larger ideas than him."
"I dare say you have; and now you'd best be gone. And you can see me again when you've heard your mother."
John Henry departed and Jacob considered him. In the past he had much resented similar applications on smaller subjects: the young man never lost anything for the sake of asking; but now this large request left him unmoved. He meant to leave Bullstone to his son, and had no real objection to handing it over in his own lifetime. For the moment this incident offered hopes of a message from his wife. There might chance some thread in John Henry's demands to serve for the business of drawing Margery and himself together again. He was ever on the look-out for such threads.
The mother of Margery believed, with Augustin, that persecution is the only solicitude the virtuous have any right to show a sinner. She held that where the least doubt of salvation might still be said to lie, it was better to torment than ignore, since this form of attention will sometimes torture the wrong-doer into grief for his wickedness, and so open the door to repentance and salvation. But she was not often in such doubt and generally separated the goats from the potential sheep without difficulty. The doomed she did not ever persecute, since any attention paid to those patently condemned was not only useless to them, but implied danger to the agent.
Of such, without the pale, was Jacob Bullstone, and now a situation had been reached where one thing must certainly have happened, save for the attitude of Judith Huxam towards him. Even despite her it might yet occur and the issue still stood in hope; but success implied that Margery would first actively oppose her mother, and her power to do so lessened fast.
The double accident of Jacob's broken thigh and his wife's indisposition delayed a possible union, and now the next step to any such event depended upon Margery. By letting her husband know that she desired to return, she might have shifted the responsibility on to his shoulders, and so ensured the achievement; but she was still anxious that he should not know, since she feared the violent steps that he might take to bring them together. Moreover she desired to be able to say afterwards to her parents that she went of her own free will back to Red House, and that her husband had no hand in the action.
Thus precious days passed, and while Jacob gradually regained his strength, thought upon his daughter's wedding and hoped the event might be the beginning of a slow and patient re-winning of his wife, she was in reality won. Long years seemed already to drag between Margery and her home; while in her failing health, the life with her parents grew more and more distasteful and afflicting. She was conscious of the change in her physical circumstances—more conscious of it than her father, or mother; but she still believed that a return to Red House would restore her strength. A situation, simple in itself, was thus complicated. The man and wife wanted to come together—because each, in a solitary heart, felt that only so was life longer to be desired at all. An instinct of self-preservation called upon Margery to return and she felt that, otherwise, her fading life forces might not be much longer preserved. It was not desire for Jacob himself, but hunger for the healthy environment of home, that fortified her to get back to it. She had forgiven her cruel ignominies and now regarded them as she regarded her anæmia—as a sickness for which evil fortune had to be blamed. Jacob similarly had suffered from a dreadful sickness, and now he was cured. Thus nothing but religion stood between them to Margery's mind. She could pity Jacob in some moods, and see nothing wrong in her desire to return to him; while, in others, she still doubted, so far as he was concerned, but did not doubt for herself. Then the conviction increased that she must go back to Red House if she were ever to recover, and when she heard, through Auna and her own brother, that Jacob actually desired her to return, the last doubt vanished.
Bullstone's attitude resembled hers in intense desire; but he was ignorant of her dangerous health and postulated a gradual ordeal—an ordeal mercifully to end in her complete forgiveness and her subsequent return. Peace might yet await them; but he was now broken into a patience he had not known, a patience willing to leave the future in his wife's hands. But there stood between them and any such consummation the figure of Margery's mother, assured that her daughter's husband was lost; that he was a man who could represent nothing but danger to the community of the faithful—a man condemned to the consequences of his unequalled sin—one who, since wickedness is both contagious and infectious, must be avoided absolutely. To approach such a man or seek communion with him was to challenge a pestilence; and when, therefore, Judith had heard her child, in a mood of melting, say that a wife's place was beside her sick husband, she took alarm and girded herself to repel the danger.
Indeed, Margery became her chief care; she neglected lesser obligations and she devoted much time to planning her child's welfare. Upon the news of Bullstone's accident, she had hoped he would not recover and, for a time, suspected that Providence had chosen this way to put Margery out of danger. But now Jacob was well again and about to return home; Avis clamoured for her delayed nuptials, and Margery held that she might, on such an occasion, be present, both in church, and afterwards, at Red House, if only for a little while.
Her mother firmly withstood the suggestion, and by her strenuous opposition convinced Jacob's wife of one thing: that only through the road of secret flight would she ever return to her husband's home. She knew now that Judith held it a choice between heaven and hell; she realised that if she returned to Jacob, her parents would regard her as eternally lost. The thought had shaken her at first, but she found, on examining it, that her attitude to religion was modified before reality. None had influenced her to this, for those whom she met were of her mother's opinion, and opportunity did not offer to learn the views of other people; but life and its present crying needs began to change her outlook. She contrasted the things she had been called to suffer and the unspeakable torments shed upon her husband out of his own weakness, with the established convention of a loving, sleepless and watchful God, who desires mercy better than sacrifice, and is all powerful to establish that happiness on earth the craving for which He implants in His creatures.
She was no longer concerned for her soul, while her personal griefs served to show her mother's convictions in a new light. Thus, as her hold on existence grew more frail, she recoiled with increased revulsion from the dogmas of the Chosen Few. Mrs. Huxam had defeated her own object, as religious mothers are apt to do, and by drowning the wounded Margery in the billows of a melancholy and merciless faith, was indirectly responsible for creating a new vision, wherein failing nature still offered Margery some measure of promise. The very escape in spirit comforted her and she was more cheerful for a time; but she did not get stronger, save mentally, and her license of mind alarmed Mrs. Huxam, who read these symptoms in her own light. She felt that her daughter's unrest and doubt were the visible sign of an inward temptation, wholly to be expected at this crucial juncture in her affairs; and while obeying the doctor in matters of food and medicine, Judith believed that the vital encounter must be fought on other ground.
She was not as yet frightened for her child's life, but only concerned for her soul. She determined, once for all, that Margery should not go to the wedding of Avis. She now tried to wrest this matter away from Jacob, and even considered whether the ceremony might be arranged and hastened, while he was in hospital; but Barlow Huxam would not support her in this. He pointed out that to take such a step, which was possible enough, seeing that Avis and young Elvin were amenable to Judith, would be unwise and likely to create a measure of sympathy with Bullstone. For the postmaster had as yet by no means bated in his bitterness; he did not desire any weakening of public sentiment against his son-in-law. That such a weakening existed already caused him some astonishment; but his attitude promised presently to respond to a stimulus that would not have touched Judith, for a measure of humanity, from which Mrs. Huxam's sterner outlook escaped, leavened Barlow's opinions.
Thus at the crucial moment it stood, and then a first step was taken. On a day in November, Jacob Bullstone came home, and Avis and Auna and Peter met his carriage at the outer gates of Red House.
All, for different reasons, were glad that he should be back again, and Auna chronicled each little incident of his return, hoping that opportunity would occur to tell her mother about it. She hid her young heart, which throbbed painfully to see her father so lame. But he told them that was a smaller matter, which would mend yet, and, at worst, not prevent him from presently riding again.
Peter did not rest until his father had been to the kennels, where Jacob was glad to be. He gave his son praise, admired two new litters of puppies and spoke with George Middleweek. George had matter for entertainment, or so it seemed to himself.
"Old Barton Gill was poking about here yesterday week," he said. "He told me he expected to find everything wrong and that he wasn't disappointed. He thought the puppies were a terrible poor lot and better in the river than out of it; and he said the kennels didn't look so smart, by a very long way, as in his time. He took a very grave view of everything, and at last he reached a point when I said that, old though he was, I should feel called to break his neck if ever I catched him here again."
"He's a ghost from the past, George," answered the master.
"Yes; and there's a few things less useful to busy men than ghosts from the past—especially weak and silly souls like Gill," answered Mr. Middleweek. "He's a ghost easily laid, however, and I don't reckon he'll be back along in a hurry. 'Tis amazing how silly the wisdom of most old men looks, even in the light of middle-aged knowledge."
"The times move so fast," explained Jacob, "and the wisdom of the fathers is the foolishness of the children. In fact there's only one high fashion of wisdom, if you come to be an old man, George; and that is to keep your mouth shut all the time."
"There's some old fools you can forgive," declared the kennel-man, "but not old fools that bleat the past. Who has got time or patience for them?"
Then, as the evening shut down, Jacob came into tea and found that Auna and Avis had arranged a feast for him.
Now it was the turn of Avis and she led the conversation to her marriage.
"I do hope you'll see your way to it pretty soon, father," she said, and he promised her that the wedding was going to be his first care.
"Pray God your mother will be well enough to come," he hoped boldly; and Auna echoed his wish, but Avis doubted.
"I'm sure she wouldn't like Bob and me to wait any more, even though she's not very well. And I don't much think she would come, even if she could," explained Jacob's daughter. "Of course there's no getting away from the past, and granny would be a good bit put about if mother was to want to come to Red House after."
"Grandfather's rather wishful for mother to be at the church, however," said Auna, "for he told me so."
"And I'm sure Avis would wish that, too, and Bob also," declared her father. He had rather dreaded home-coming, but the ordeal proved pleasanter than he expected. Two men called together during the evening and Billy Marydrew, with Adam Winter, dropped in, that they might congratulate Jacob on his recovery.
Avis and Peter went about their own affairs, but Auna sat beside her father until he bade her leave them.
"I made this here man come in with me," explained William. "He weren't coming, but I said he'd be welcome for two reasons—firstly to wish you a friendly wish, which was in him to do, and secondly to see me home, because the night be blowing up for foul and I'm so light as a leaf nowadays; and if the wind thrust me in the river, there I should certainly bide."
They shook hands and Winter spoke.
"You know how much I've felt about this. It was a very terrible thing to fall out and——"
"Don't go back to it. Don't let it trouble you any more. How is the man? Does he understand that it was a bad thing to do? Does he understand that he and I have both been out of our minds and done bad things? Or he may argue, perhaps, that he was right to take the law into his own hands. Anyway what he did to me was a great deal less than what I did to you. I know—I know, Adam. It's one of the few blessings left that time can let me talk in this stark fashion to you. Where there's such forgiveness as yours to me, there's a great foundation for friendship. Humble enough on my side. But it would be well to know if Samuel has took your line in that matter and harbours no malice, or if I must be on my guard."
"He's long since forgotten all about it. He remembers no more than my bull remembers. He'll wonder to see you lame and treat you respectful, same as he did before."