"That's good then. There's compensations for a weak mind if it carries a weak memory, Adam. And yet, without memory, we can't mourn our sins and better our behaviour."
"That's why the beasts that perish don't get any forwarder, Jacob," explained William. "Memory be left out of them, save in small particulars. And so they just live, and their sorrow is a passing matter and their happiness not much more than a sense of comfort. And Sammy's terrible lucky in one thing, like all other lunies, that, though he pays the price of his wits in this world, he's a dead certainty for salvation in the next. You may be born without a mind, you see, but if you're a human, you can't be born without a soul; and though this world's blank for Samuel, in any high sense, his number's up for the Kingdom of Heaven, since he's so sinless as a jackdaw, for all his mischief."
"A deep subject," admitted Adam, "and I don't know as ever I looked at it like that, Billy; but comforting for certain to them that care for the soft, unfinished ones."
"Oh, yes," promised Mr. Marydrew cheerfully, "our maniacs will all be there to welcome us; and in the light that pours out of the Throne, my dears, 'tis very likely indeed we shall find that the softies were often a damn sight saner than some of us, who prided ourselves on our wits."
"That's true for certain," said Jacob. "I can confess before such as you, though to some sort of men I never shall. But I can tell you that I've been mad and am sane again—sane enough, at any rate, never to trust my sanity any more. I was a very proud man, William, but pride has left me. I shall never be proud again, nor proud of anything that belongs to me."
"You never were that," answered Winter. "In fact, where you had the right to be proud, you were not, Bullstone."
They talked together, and Auna, who had been sent away soon after their arrival, now returned and poured drink for them. Jacob felt no objection to saying things before her that he would not have said before his other children.
"It is a good thing in my life to know that you can sit in this room as a friend," he said to Adam Winter. "There's a sort of sorrow that is not all pain; and though I shall never look upon you without sorrow, I shall always welcome the sight of you."
"I understand. And may the welcome never grow less and the sorrow dwindle," answered the other. "We've gone through a deep place; and I've lived to gather from you that you were possessed, as many good men have had the ill luck to be; and please God others, that matter a very great deal more than I do, may live to understand the same."
Thus, upon his home-coming, there fell a fitful ray of peace into the outer regions of Bullstone's mind; and, content for a brief hour to live in the present and trust this Indian summer, he took heart for a little while.
He thanked them for their visit and declared, presently, that his physical wounds had been a good thing.
"To go short on your leg is a trifle, if it helps you to go longer in your heart, and take wider views and rise up into patience," he said. "I'm the wickedest of men, and yet I have got good friends who are wishful for my betterment. And I never shall forget it—never."
"You're not a wicked man, father. Tell him he's not a wicked man, Mr. Marydrew," urged Auna.
"Nobody's very wicked, my dear," answered Billy; "and nobody's any too good. We're all much of a muchness, and good and evil be like the berries on the trees—-all stomachable to somebody. Good's bad and bad's good according to the point of view, and only through being bad, some folks reach to being good. To some nice people being good is as easy as falling off a log—same as it is to you, Auna, because you can't be any other; and to some equally nice sort of people, 'tis a lot more difficult. The point ain't so much whether you be good, as what you be good for. Some folk be so good as gold, and yet good for nought; and some are so wicked as the devil, and yet good for a lot. In fact 'tis a very wonderful world, my dear."
Auna laughed and presently the men rose to go home. Adam promised to send Samuel to see Jacob on the following day. Margery had not been named, but William alluded to her as he departed.
"There's always hope," he said. "I'll come along to-morrow and eat my dinner with you, and us'll have a tell. And don't you get too busy. You'll be a sick man yet, and your maiden here must look after you so well as she can."
Auna promised to do so, and when Avis and Peter had eaten their suppers and gone to bed, she waited on her father.
"I do all the things you do," she told him. "I lock up and put out the lamps and everything, because Avis is too busy with her wedding, and Peter don't remember little things."
She helped him to his own room presently and he found it prepared for him in every particular. Then she aided him to undress, and he bade her return, when she was ready to go to bed, and say good night. She came, in her grey flannel night-gown, and jumped in beside him for a little while.
He was very silent now and very tired. But he liked to listen to her. It seemed as though the years had rolled away and Margery, young again, was lying beside him. The very inflection of Auna's voice was hers.
And while she talked, the girl was thinking of her mother, too, for she knew what was in Jacob's mind.
"Go now," he said, for her presence became too poignant. "Good night, my dinky treasure, and God bless you."
She kissed him.
"And I hope—oh, how I hope mother will soon be here beside you, father dear."
He squeezed her hand.
"Dout the candle and go on hoping—go on hoping, my pretty bird."
Then she slipped away and the man lay awake for many hours before the circumstance of his home-coming. Its goodness was precious; but the loneliness and doubt tormented him.
Margery fluctuated and on her feeblest days the desire to return home became most intense. For her own sake she longed to be back at Red House; for his sake she wanted to be with Jacob. Her emotions towards him eluded her; but when she knew definitely from Auna that his only dream on earth was to see her again beside him, pity woke a faint ghost of the old love. Red House itself drew her, for she felt that if the remainder of her life was to be spent as a sick woman, she could be a more useful one and a happier one in her home than with her parents. Though they assured her daily that their home was hers, and dwelt much on the delight of the villa residence, soon to receive them and Margery, she could win no pleasure from the thought and her weakened mind shrank more and more from the robust opinions of her mother and her father's forced cheerfulness. They were incapable of understanding all that she felt, and now indeed she lacked physical courage to attempt further explanation. In any case she would be opposed. Therefore, with plenty of leisure for thought, she matured her secret plans. They were foolish plans, for though the idea of telling Auna frankly that she longed to come home and leaving the rest to Jacob had more than once tempted her, this obvious course she feared, as being likely to create greater difficulties of ultimate reconciliation with her parents. So she gave neither Auna nor Avis any hint of the action proposed, but arranged with Jeremy, on the understanding that no word concerning his part in the plot should be whispered. That assured, with ill grace he promised to meet her on a night in November, one fortnight before the day now fixed for the wedding.
Thus Margery planned her return home and hoped that the wedding of Avis and Robert Elvin would serve its turn to distract attention and smooth affairs afterwards. In sanguine moments she even trusted time to conciliate her parents. That her father would some day forgive her she knew, and that her mother must logically pardon in the obedience to her own faith, she hoped. For Margery fell back whole-heartedly upon the belief that she was prompted and driven home again at Heaven's command. She found much consolation and support in the belief that Providence willed her return. For her, as for many, faith was only fatality writ in a more comfortable word.
It had been arranged that at three o'clock on a certain morning, Jeremy and his trap should wait near Lydia Bridge, and that his sister should come by the pathway under forest trees, beside the river and join him there.
Margery conserved her strength for this supreme effort and, for two days before it came, lived in a trance. But she was alert enough to take more food than usual and preserve a cheerful attitude. Her only doubt centred in the extent of her physical strength, and now on the eve of her departure, as that winter day closed in under a cold and frosty sky, she wished, too late, that she had asked Jane to meet her close at hand, and pilot her through the night to Jeremy.
She knew that she could safely leave the house, for her parents always slept well and would not be awakened by any sound that she might make.
She sat with them that night until they bade her go to bed. Then her mother ministered to her, read a chapter from the Bible, while Margery drank her glass of hot milk, and so wished her good night and left her. The hour was ten o'clock and she knew that nearly five hours must pass before she would start. A little milk pudding was always left beside her, to eat in the night if she awoke. This she determined to take at two o'clock, before she began to dress. Now the details, that seemed so simple at a distance, began to loom larger and more complicated. There was, after all, so much to do before she could get clear of the house, and the subsequent walk through the wood by the river began to seem a great thing. For she, who had once loved the night, felt nervous of it now. Again and again she wished that she had asked Jane to meet her near the post-office. She even considered the possibility of changing her plans and fixing another night, before which this detail might be arranged. But Jeremy would be at Lydia Bridge by three o'clock, and if she failed him, he could not be counted upon for a second attempt.
Her mind ran forward. She would leave Jeremy at the outer gate of Red House, while she,—about four o'clock, or earlier—would go through the wood and knock at the door. There was a bell, too; but if she could rouse Jacob without wakening any other, that must be best. His room looked over the porch. If she were strong enough, she would throw small stones and waken him.
She pictured him looking out and seeing her. He would certainly know who it was by star-light and hasten to let her in. The peat fire never went out at this season, and he would bring her to it and draw it up. He would not say much. He would be like a man fearful to wake from a dream; but she would speak. He must never know who had brought her home: he would not be jealous about that, Indeed he could not fail to guess. After all it would be very like Jeremy to confess in secret—for the sake of Jacob's applause and possible reward. Her husband would take her up to her room, then, and leave her to go to sleep, while he dressed and began the day. And presently her children would come to see her, while the familiar sounds would be in her ears—the song of the river, the bleating of the goats and the barking of the dogs. Puppies would tumble into her lap again—new puppies that she had never seen; and old dogs she remembered would be there to remember her. She would be very still and rest all day; and then painful things must happen, for Avis, or Peter, must go swiftly in the morning to tell them at Brent and allay their alarm. She started out of this dream, for already she seemed lying in her own bed at home. But she was not there yet. Thinking wearied her. A clock struck midnight.
She was back again in thought at Red House presently. It seemed already hastening to meet her, instead of withdrawing far away under the stars and waiting for her to come to it. Her mind wandered over little homely things and indulged in little homely wonders. How was Jacob's linen? Auna mended for him now. And her own shards and husks—Auna had told her that nothing of them was touched. Jacob never allowed anybody to go near the great wardrobe that he had bought for her when they were married. But her clothes had curiously interested him. She doubted not that he looked at the empty rags sometimes and took care of them. He had always treasured the russet costume in which she was so nearly drowned before their marriage. She concentrated upon Jacob and wondered why he wanted her, and what he would think if he knew that she wanted him. Another hour passed and for a little while she slept, then woke frightened lest she had slept too long.
Elsewhere a scene of unusual vivacity was taking place which bore directly upon Margery's affairs; and while she reflected and dreamed, her parents entered upon a lively argument ere they slumbered. Barlow had taken his lozenge and was about to sleep when his wife addressed him and touched a matter already much in his mind.
"I'm a long way short of comfortable about Margery," she began, and he declared the same uneasiness. That he should echo her doubt interested Judith, but on questioning him she found that his fears were not concerned with her daughter's soul. Her bodily state it was that agitated him.
"Dr. Briggs told me only to-day she was going back rather than forward. She wants a good shake-up in his opinion, and a very serious thing is this: that she's not anxious to get well seemingly. Doctor held that was a grave symptom, She's not set on building up her strength, and she doubts if she'll ever do it, unless something happens to throw her mind out of itself."
"Something will happen soon," said Mrs. Huxam. "There'll be the excitement of changing houses."
"It isn't that sort of excitement, Judy. We're too apt to forget that Margery was always a bit delicate. After the awful shock, and before she'd got over that, she was snatched away from her regular life and thrown into ours, which is quite different in every way. Quite right and necessary, but we can't realise all that meant, or all she had to go through, I expect. We only knew that she'd escaped from the evil to come; but there was another side to her home life which no doubt she's dreadfully missed and which we didn't know. In fact she's confessed it often. And now she's got anæmia, and that's dangerous in itself."
"I'm troubled about something a good bit more dangerous than anæmia," answered Judith. "The dust we're made of only holds together as long as our Maker wants to cage our souls on earth. Then He cracks it and lets the soul out; and that happens at the moment He wills and not a moment sooner. Margery is like a swallow in September—restless, restless. You can see it in her eyes—not resigned and not interested in the villa residence, but thinking far too much of self. The devil's at her, Barlow."
"It's nature—not the devil. And you must put the body first for the minute, because the state of the soul often depends upon it. In a word I'm not at all sure if Lawyer Dawes wasn't right. He told me flat out, that if he could make it happen, he'd get Margery and her husband friends again; and he said that was more likely to improve her health, and save her life even than anything that can overtake her. He's seen a good bit of Jacob Bullstone and he assures me he's a changed man."
"And what did you say? Reproved the vain fool I should hope. 'Save her life!' Doesn't Dawes know that 'He who loses his life for My sake shall save it'? Did you tell him that? Did you remind him that the only life that matters to a Christian is the eternal life?"
"I did not," confessed Barlow, "because, in the case of Lawyer Dawes, that would have been vain conversation. And I may remind you the specialist that Dr. Briggs had down to see Margery from Plymouth said something to the same purpose. He's known for a very clever man indeed, with many good and amazing cures to his credit, and he understands his business be sure. Briggs didn't agree with him I grant, because he hates Bullstone for his crimes, and wouldn't have her go back; but Dr. Nettleship, from Plymouth, did firmly hold that if they could be brought together it might be the turning point for Margery and restore her health and peace. And, what's more, I wouldn't be so very much astonished if Margery herself was agreeable."
Mrs. Huxam sat up wide awake.
"You properly shock me," she answered, "and I'm very sorry that I've heard you utter these loose thoughts. For they show a weakness that I never guessed was so near home. And now you say she's that way inclined herself, and don't that show I'm right—that her spirit is in danger? It's too true that she's in moods sometimes, when she thinks of that man in a very improper manner. I've surprised her in them, and we know Satan finds plenty of evil thought for idle minds. But let it be understood once for all that they are evil and open the way to deadly danger; and never let me hear you say again that it might be well for her to go back to Red House; because if I do, I'll change my lifelong feeling to you, Barlow."
"Don't say nothing you'll repent," begged Barlow, "You've taken this in far too fierce a spirit. We only want to consider all possible plans for making Margery well in body first."
"We have not to consider anything of the sort," answered Judith. "Her body matters not a brass button against her soul; and if, in her bodily weakness, the devil sees an opportunity, then 'tis for us to hinder him, not help him. You're very near as bad as old Marydrew and other people I've heard on the subject. Don't you see what becomes of your daughter's soul, if she goes back to that doomed sinner even in thought? You've astonished me a good bit by your earthy blindness to-night, for I thought you were long past any such weakness. Sometimes my heart sinks when I look at life and see, even among my nearest, such dangers opening under their feet. But you—I certainly did always count that you were safe."
Barlow in his turn was hurt.
"So did I," he said, "and with tolerable sound reason; and it's a source of great pain to me that you can doubt it. You mustn't imagine, Judy, that I'm taking any fatal attitude. I'm very well satisfied that Margery can look after her soul; surely you've taught her how to do that? And I'm also tolerably certain I can look after mine. You mustn't get into the way of thinking you're the only creature on God's earth who be out of danger. I'm talking of our daughter's body for the minute, not her soul, and if the Plymouth doctor says a certain thing—a man of great knowledge too—and you have reason to believe that Margery may have some ideas in the same direction, then I say it's well within reason, and religion also, to turn it over before you turn it down."
"And I say that you lie," answered Mrs. Huxam firmly. "As to reason, I don't know and don't want to know. I hate the word. I know where reason will bring most humans, despite their Saviour's blood poured in a river for them. And I will speak for religion and our child's eternity and only that; and I tell you that any such horror as her going back to her old life would shut the door of Heaven against her for evermore. And that you know as well as I do; and I hope you'll call on God to forgive you for pretending to doubt it. And I hope God will forgive you, else you'll soon be in pretty sad trouble yourself."
Mr. Huxam did not immediately reply, but the adamant conviction with which Judith spoke impressed him. He did indeed suspect that from the standpoint of religion she might be right; but he excused himself.
"A father is a father," he said, "and if natural longing, to see my only daughter strong and happy again, led me to offend—well, you must make allowance for human weakness, Judy."
"A father is a father as you say, Barlow; and a Heavenly Father is a Heavenly Father; and if you're not prepared to say 'Thy will be done' at your time of life, then I can assure you that it's a very hopeless attitude. We want to make Margery's soul sure for God. We want to know that when we're safe through the Vale, our children—the souls we have been allowed to bring on earth—will follow us to our eternal home, or go in front, as in the case of our Thomas. The order of going is God's business, but the road is ours, and having the Light, what shall be said of the human parent that would let a child stray on the wrong road if he could prevent it? You're playing with everlasting fire for your only daughter—that's what you're doing to-night."
"Then we'll go to sleep," said Mr. Huxam. "I quite understand she's in Higher Hands, and I also grant the duty to the soul is higher than the duty to the body. We'll see her together to-morrow, and tackle the subject, and try to find the right road for Margery—where body and soul both will be looked after."
But his wife would not let him go to sleep. She was roused into a very vivid wakefulness and she poured a long and steady flood of dogma into Barlow's weary ears. His answers became fewer and she talked him into unconsciousness at last; but she did not sleep herself; and thus it came about that while Margery was dressing and putting on all the warm clothes that she could wear, her mother, fifteen yards away in the rambling, old house, remained very wide awake, her senses strung to dismay and her soul in arms. She had forgotten Margery and was now in deep trouble concerning Barlow's salvation.
Mrs. Huxam left her bed presently and knelt down to pray. But she found it exceedingly cold and rose and wrapped a dressing-gown about her, before she knelt again. It was then, in the stillness of a moonlit and frosty night, the time being a little after half past two o'clock, that Judith heard the shutting of the outer side door below her. There could be no doubt. The private entrance was closed gently, and it must first have been opened. Barlow slept and the room was dark save for the square of light where a white blind hid the window. She drew on her shoes, put the nearest garment, a flannel petticoat, over her head and left the room. She wasted no time in seeking for Margery, but descended at once, reached the door, found it unlocked, opened it and went into the street. The cold struck her like a blow and she gasped unconsciously. Thirty yards away, a woman moved in the moonlight and Judith knew that it was her daughter. She followed instantly and ran to overtake her. Hearing footsteps, Margery turned and, in a moment, her mother was beside her.
"Thank God!" was all Mrs. Huxam said, while the younger nearly felt, then strove to hurry on.
"Go back, go back, mother!" she implored. "You're wise,—you understand. It must be so. God has brought me to see it. Nought happens but by the will of God."
"Turn—turn and don't take the Name, Margery. Quick—quick! You shall come back. Quick then, for your soul's sake, before the frost strikes you dead in the act of sin. The will of God—yes—His will—to send me to save you—to head you off from death. The will of the devil you'd set out to do—and I've come between by the mercy of our sleepless Father. Come back to me—come back to righteousness, Margery; come back and praise your Maker Who sent a faithful mother to save you."
She used physical force while she talked. Their breath rose in the air; the old woman's high-pitched voice echoed in the silent street; Judith dragged at Margery, while she, numbly conscious of the great cold, found herself not strong enough to shake her mother off. Mrs. Huxam held on and prayed aloud, with a vigour that mastered the wife of Jacob, until Margery felt her will perishing and her limbs refusing to resist. One last effort was made.
"Think before you hale me back," she said. "Oh, mother, think! It's either going home, or dying—I know it."
"'Home!' Where's your home? Don't you understand yet? Have you drunk poison unbeknownst to us? Brace your body to do your soul's work, Margery! There's only one home for the spirits of the just made perfect. Trust your mother, who's wearied your Maker's ear for you ever since you were born. Trust me, I say. Am I nothing? Don't you want Heaven, if only for my sake? Well I know you do. Praise God for His blessings and set your foot firm on the only way. That's right—that's right. Lean on me and praise your Maker. Oh, child—you poor, strayed sheep—did you think to go through this icy night all that way to hell? But you'd have fallen frozen—frozen in your sin—and then the loving Lord's self couldn't have saved you. But you're safe now—safe, safe, Margery. The angels are singing over the sinner that was saved. We should hear 'em if our ears weren't stopped with earth. That's my brave child, with her hand in God's and the powers of darkness routed. Off they go! You can almost see 'em—and the Children of Light guide you home."
She half supported, half dragged Margery back; then she helped her to her room still pouring out a flood of speech. Mrs. Huxam had grown a little hysterical herself. Her daughter fell quite silent, and submitted, like a child, to be undressed. But suddenly a moment of futile passion loosed her lips and she turned on her mother.
"You've brought me back to my death," she said. "Understand that, grasp hold of it. Your work to shorten my poor days and crush out my last hope. I shall never rise again off this bed—never, never!"
As she spoke, Mr. Huxam, who had been awakened, appeared at the doorway in a red dressing-gown and white wool night-cap.
"Praise God, father, praise God—lift your voice to the sleepless Everlasting!" cried Judith. "The Powers of Darkness are shattered and our girl's safe—safe!"
"Never did I doubt it," answered the man, and then he busied himself and begged his wife to come to bed.
But Judith would not leave Margery.
"I sleep with her—with my arms round her—with her head on the breast that gave her life and the heart that has beat for her since she was born. Be off to your chamber, Barlow, and sleep no more, but praise God. All's well—all's well now!"
Huxam, ignorant of what had happened, went his way, and Judith joined her daughter; while under the sinking moon, where winter trees spread their boughs above Lydia Bridge and the great arc of the waterfall flashed with a thousand sparks of white fire, Jeremy Huxam tramped the frosty road, stamped his feet, looked to the covering of his horse, flung his rug over it, and growled words seldom heard from one of the Chosen Few. For an hour he waited and several times paced the footpath by the river beneath, to meet his sister. But she did not come and, heartily glad of it, the man at last set out for home. Under the darkness before dawn, he trotted off, his horse's hoofs ringing noisily upon the frozen lanes.
None but Jeremy and his wife ever heard particulars concerning that night, and it was only through his sister's confession to Jane that her husband learned why she did not come. Mrs. Huxam never guessed who had been waiting for Margery; indeed she did not know that anybody had waited, and felt little doubt that she had saved her child's body as well as soul. For her own part she came through the experience unhurt; but Margery suffered. Judith's excitation of mind had apparently served as armour against the inclement night and she was none the worse, while her daughter's debility and depression offered an easier prey to the cold.
Margery had been chilled and, for two days, the doctor feared. Then the immediate danger diminished, though the inherent source of mischief increased. From that night indeed it gained upon Margery and solved for her the problem of attending the wedding. She left her bed again, but could not leave the house.
Then Barlow Huxam asserted himself and insisted that the date of the wedding should be altered if Margery wished it; but she did not wish it. She knew that her chances of taking any part in the day were over. It was understood that Avis and Robert would spend five minutes with her, on their way to the station after they were married, and the wedding meal at Red House had been taken.
To this entertainment more were bidden than cared to come; but the Elvins and Robert's friends sufficed to brighten the feast that Jacob had planned. For him the knowledge that Margery was too unwell to attend the service robbed the day of its sole salt; but he went through with the business and carried himself cheerfully.
There came Robert's mother and various relations, William Marydrew and others, including John Henry from Bullstone; but while the Huxams attended the service, they did not, of course, proceed to the bridal breakfast, nor were they troubled to decline, for Jacob knew it was impossible to invite them. He ventured to ask the Winters, however, and Adam was minded to go, but his aunt refused and prevented him from doing so.
"There's some things that are seemly and some that are not, and women are generally more understanding to know one from t'other than men," she said. "Your judgment tells you that you and poor Margery can't well meet no more under one roof, unless it's the Lord's roof o' Sundays; but with regard to this wretched man, just because that thing happened about Samuel, you have lost sight of the truth of him and seem to reckon there's no indecency in having truck with him. It may be Christian, but it ain't manners. I've never yet felt as my Christianity comes between me and my dignity, and I'm sorry you do."
"I'll not go, then," answered her nephew. "It can make no difference to him."
Many, indeed, attended the service who had no intention of joining the subsequent gathering. Jacob gave Avis away, and Auna was her bridesmaid; while for Robert, his elder brother, home from sea for a while, acted as best man.
The Huxams sat in church together, and Auna heard from Jane, before the wedded pair set out for Red House, that Margery was not so well that day. Auna kept her bad news until all was over at home and Avis and Robert had driven off together. Then she sought Jacob who sat alone, thankful to be alone, and told him that her mother was worse. But she came to the sad matter slowly, dwelt first on all that had happened, and declared that everything had fallen out very triumphantly.
"Dear old Mr. Marydrew sat by me at the feast," said Auna, "and Mr. Middleweek sat on the other side of me, and they were both very cheerful indeed—even George, though George is no believer in marriage."
"Isn't he, Auna?"
"Oh, no. He and Billy talked about it, and Billy says there's more happy marriages than not; and George said the happy ones be like a corncrake in the hayfield—oftener heard of than seen. And he said that marriage was like living in a shop all the time—buying, or selling—haggling and trying to get a cheap bargain on one side and holding out for the price on the other. But I'm sure George don't mean all the acid things he says about people marrying. And Mr. Marydrew talked very hopefully of the next world, and says he'll be a farmer up there and begin all over again. But he much hopes the Happy Land won't want such a lot of muck spread on it as Dartmoor does."
Jacob smiled, while she chattered; then she came to the bad news gently.
"I hope that mother will be strong enough to have a little tell with Avis and Bob before they start," she said; "but I'm terrible sorry to say dear mother ain't very peart this morning. Aunt Jane told me about it after Avis was married. I talked to her and Uncle Jeremy in the churchyard, and they both said it was a very beautiful wedding in their opinion, and Avis never looked so fine. But mother's gone weak. There ain't no nature in her."
He sighed.
"You'd best to go in first thing to-morrow. And we'll send her some goats' milk again. It did her good last summer. I made her drink some red wine, once, when she got too thin years ago. Burgundy it is called. I'll see the doctor about her. He doesn't like me; but he won't fear to name wine for her if he thinks it would be a right thing."
"Grandmother wouldn't suffer mother to drink wine, father."
"As medicine she would."
"So she would then," agreed Auna. "Medicine can't be wicked. And Jesus Christ turned water into wine for happy people at a wedding, so why shouldn't unhappy people be allowed a drop? I asked grandmother that once, and she looked at me unkindly. She doesn't like me very much."
"Because you haven't thrown me over, Auna."
"Throw you over!" exclaimed the girl. "What would there be left if I hadn't got you? There's nobody else in the world, till mother comes home again; and sometimes I think she never will, father."
"But sometimes you think that she's going to? You hope still, don't you?"
She saw how eager he was and regretted her speech.
"Yes, I do sometimes. I believe, if we could take her a pair of wings and tell her to fly, she would fly. And she'd fly straight to Red House I expect. She don't like the post-office, and she don't even like grandfather's new house overmuch I'm afraid."
"I'd be the wings to help her fly, Auna, if I could. She should fly quick enough if I thought she wanted to fly—aye, though I had to break down her father's walls to let her out."
Auna was struck dumb by the vision.
"I wish I could see her alone, but 'tis harder and harder to do now she mostly keeps her room. A girl ought to be able to see her mother alone at my age; but grandmother don't make me welcome now, and she hustles me off for one thing and another."
"She thinks evil—that's why. She thinks you are on my side against her, Auna."
"If she's against you, then I'm against her. I've stopped loving her this good while now, because she won't let me talk about you to mother. And I can see in mother's eyes that she's wishful to hear. And it's cruel I can't tell her about things."
Jacob considered and weighed the gravity of the situation. There was still no link between himself and his wife but such as Auna could furnish.
And as Bullstone reflected, Avis and her husband came before Margery at the post-office.
She was in bed to-day, but she sat up while the pair stood beside her. They were going to Exeter for a week of honeymoon, and Avis promised to see the cathedral and listen to an anthem.
"There's no Chosen Few in Exeter, so far as grandmother knows," said Robert's bride; "but she thinks there will be no harm if we worship in the cathedral o' Sunday. And we're going to the Museum also."
"Now tell me about the wedding. Did Bob speak out brave and clear, Avis?"
"Yes he did then—so loud that one or two in the church tittered—so Auna told us after. And I spoke out loud too. And grandfather and father signed the book in the vestry; and pretty near everybody waited to see me and Robert march out. And there was a lot of rice flung at me in the churchyard by old Billy Marydrew, but grandmother said he didn't ought."
"I do hope you'll soon be better," said Robert. "Mother's very wishful for you to come up to Owley in the spring time. She's dearly like for you to come, Mrs. Bullstone."
"And so would I like it, and perhaps I will, Bob," answered Margery. "Tell me more who was in the church."
"Miss Winter and Mr. Winter," began young Elvin, but Avis stopped him.
"Hush, Robert!" she said.
"No call to hush, Avis. I'm very glad they was there," declared Margery.
"They didn't come to Red House after, of course," continued Avis; "but a rally of neighbours did, and Bob's mother and his sailor brother sat by father, and Mr. Rupert Elvin, Bob's great-uncle, proposed the health of the bride."
"And Mr. Bullstone gave us a proper banquet—I never saw such a spread and never shall again I'm sure," vowed Robert.
"Father was pretty cheerful I hope?" asked Margery, and Avis looked uncomfortable.
Robert answered.
"He was, because it was kept from him and all of us that you weren't very well to-day. And he told me that he'd hoped you might be there; but no doubt the reason against was your poor state, Mrs. Bullstone."
"Hush, Robert," said Avis.
"You must call me 'mother' now, Bob," replied Margery. "You've got two mothers now; and so has Avis."
"And very gay and proud I'm sure," said Robert. "And I'll send you a bit of good foreign fruit from Exeter, mother, to cheer you up."
"Don't you waste your money, Bob."
"You know Owley's mine, now, mother?" asked Avis.
"I do, and very good news; and I hope you thanked your father for it. Very few young people get such a fine start in life. A very good father to you, my dear."
Avis did not answer, but Robert felt constrained to do so.
"So I tell her, and I hope Mr. Bullstone won't never have cause to be sorry. God willing, he never shall."
"That's right, Bob. Avis have got you to thank also."
"And John Henry feels that, if I have Owley, he ought to have Bullstone," added Avis.
"All in good time I expect. Father will do fair and right by every one."
They talked a little longer, then Mrs. Huxam appeared.
"'Tis time you was away," she said. "Your grandfather and I and a few more are just walking down to see the train off, and the carriage is waiting for you and the luggage is at the station. So be off in five minutes. You'll be all right, Margery? I shan't be gone very long."
She departed and soon afterwards Avis and Robert bade the invalid 'good-bye.' She kissed them, then heard laughter and cheerful words below, looked out the window and saw the carriage with two grey horses drive off. There was a white satin bow on the coachman's whip. She crept back to bed again and her heart throbbed. She had grown weaker, and she cried now, not at the emotion of the moment, but before the whole spectacle of her shattered life and maimed existence. In her present state she had ceased even to lament the failure of her last effort to return home. Now she felt that was no great matter. She was enfeebled, indifferent and had lost the will to live. But there grew in her one desire: a great wish to see her husband again and bid him farewell. None would help her on her side; but if he received a direct message from her, it was certain that Jacob would come.
She could no longer concentrate her mind for more than a few minutes at a time, and was sleeping when her mother returned to her.
Jacob Bullstone now did a thing he had not yet and sought Dr. Briggs, the medical man who was attending his wife. The physician had been Margery's doctor of old and knew her well. He allowed himself great latitude of language at the time of the separation and he entertained violent dislike of Jacob. Bullstone waited on him and, without concealing his aversion, the thin, grey-whiskered practitioner snapped his evil tidings.
"There is no reason, I imagine, why you should be kept in ignorance. Your wife, so to call her, is exceedingly ill, and the natural weakness, which I was able to combat pretty effectually of old, has now gone much further."
"She's taking iron I hope?" inquired Jacob, and the other regarded him with aversion.
"Need you ask? The iron has entered into her soul—not the iron I gave, however. You'll say I'm not professional and so forth. Perhaps you don't want to know the reasons for this collapse—only the extent of it. Perhaps you do know the reasons? At any rate I can repeat to you, as I have a dozen times to her parents, that the old tendency to anæmia, owing to certain obscure defects of the nourishing system and so forth, have, under her fearful mental trials, become chronic and are now developing the gravest symptoms. A few weeks ago she suffered from a sharp chill during the recent harsh weather. It threatened immediate danger; but I got her through that. You cannot, however, minister to a mind diseased."
"Perhaps the one that gave the poison might best find the antidote," said Bullstone humbly, and the doctor looked at him with some bitterness.
"There's no antidote for this poison," he answered.
"And do you feel any reason to doubt that the spring will see a change for the better?"
"Seasons have nothing to do with it. She is little likely to see another spring. The constitution has broken and the will power has gone. She feels no desire to go on living, and I cannot create that desire in her. Nor can any of her family."
"Have they tried?"
"Naturally. You do not imagine they want her to die. With anæmia a patient gets ups and downs, which flatter hope, or increase fear. But we are far past these stages of the ailment. Her vitality ebbs with increasing quickness, and I cannot stem the tide."
"Do you not feel that a second opinion might be desirable?"
"I have taken a second opinion. Mr. Nettleship, of Plymouth, saw her several weeks ago."
"I was not told of that."
"Possibly not. He came one evening and took even a more serious view of the case than I did. The event has proved he was correct. He has devoted special study to the disease."
"Nothing can be done, then, Dr. Briggs?"
"Nothing that is not being done."
They parted and it was upon the same night—an occasion that found Jacob sleepless and in mental torment—that there broke upon him a great, unknown fact. Through Auna it came, three days after the wedding; but Auna herself had passed through a mighty ordeal and suffered much tribulation in her young mind, before she could bring herself finally to reveal the truth to her father. Long she fought, until at last, lying sleepless and worn out, she determined to tell Jacob what she knew. She rose, went to him then and there, found him awake and spoke.
It had happened thus. On the morning after the wedding of Avis, at Jacob's will, Auna set out immediately after breakfast for the post-office, to learn how her mother might be. On the way she was passed by Adam Winter, driving some pigs to the railway station, and he stopped and offered her a lift. Thus the duration of her journey was shortened and her heart was a little lifted by the man's cheerful words.
As others, who had known her mother of old, Adam saw Margery again in Auna—the slim, quick shape, the eager eyes, the steadfast cheerfulness. And Auna's devotion to her desolate father touched some hearts vaguely. The rest of the children had slipped away from him and loosened bonds never very tight; but she remained and still strove with youthful obstinacy to build up the broken walls of her home. Her life was largely spent in going backwards and forwards, and she seemed conscious of the significance of her task, for a sort of gravity now belonged to her. Her young face was moulded into a solemn expression and care clouded her eyes.
She told Adam that her mother was worse.
"Else I'm sure she'd have made a brave try to get to church yesterday, to see Avis married."
"I'm sure she would," he answered, "but no doubt her thoughts were there and you'll be able to tell her what a fine send-off they had—a good flash of sunshine and all."
"Father's taking it hard, and I'm going as quick as I may, in hopes to hear she's better."
"And I hope you will hear it. You'll be able to tell her what a good wedding it was—everything just perfect if she'd only been there. How does your father's leg go on?"
"Very clever he says. The pin bone was broke. And he's quite forgiven Sammy, because he knows that he never would have done it, if he'd been like other people, Mr. Winter."
"I'm very sure of that, Auna. Tell your father I'll come in and smoke a pipe along with him some night pretty soon. He didn't ought to be on his leg too much just yet I reckon—a heavy man like him."
At the station Auna alighted and arrived at the post-office an hour earlier than usual. The accident proved fruitful, for her grandmother, while expecting the girl, had no reason to suppose she would appear for some time. Judith was occupied in the post-office and Barlow had gone over to his son. Thus Auna slipped up to her mother's room quite unobserved. She was delighted; but Margery's appearance cast her down.
"Oh, dear, mother, you're as white as a dog's tooth!" she said.
Margery, however, flushed a little to see her.
"Come close, my pretty. I've slept ill; I'll be better presently. I've always got a headache now and I can't let down my food very clever."
"I've brought some of the goats' milk—fresh this morning."
"You're early to-day."
"Started early and got here ever so quick, because Mr. Winter was bringing in pigs and gave me a lift. Grandmother doesn't know I've come yet. Nobody does."
"Talk low then. She won't be up for half an hour, if she thinks I'm alone."
"Have you had a good breakfast?"
"Ever so good. How's father after the wedding?"
"Very sad indeed, because you're bad. Oh, mother, he'd have given all he's got in the world if he could have come this morning instead of me."
"He'd like to come?"
"You well know it. If you'd lift your little finger, he'd come."
Margery smiled.
"When I could lift my little finger, I didn't. Now I can't, perhaps——"
"But if he knew you even wanted to——"
"How's his leg, Auna?"
"Better and better. But Mr. Winter says he mustn't use it too much, because he's a heavy man. But he isn't as heavy as he was. He's thinner round the waist, mother."
"Is he? And is Adam Winter kindly to him?"
"Very kindly. He was cruel sorry for father's fearful fall. He'd have had Sammy put away, but father forgave him, and Sammy's forgot all about it now."
Margery reflected and stroked the girl's hand.
Their hands were very much alike, save that the elder's had grown thin and white.
"You must bear up at what I'm going to say, Auna; but I'm terrible afraid I'm going to die before so very long. Not afraid because I'm going to die. That's nothing to mind when you feel like I feel; but afraid because it will make you and father and the boys and Avis sorrowful."
"Going to die!" gasped Auna. "No, no, no, mother, don't 'e die yet a while! Think on father. If you died, he'd never be happy again, and he's been unhappy such a longful time now; and if you died, he'd die himself very likely."
"Perhaps I won't then. But I feel terrible bad. And you can tell father one thing. He wanted to see me, Auna, and he wanted me back at home?"
"Of course he did—cruel he wanted you back."
"But he didn't know I wanted to come back. You can tell him I wanted to come back. It may make him feel happier."
"But why didn't you come? Oh, mother, why didn't you?"
"I tried to come when I heard he wanted me. Yes, I tried. Only it was too late then. Things fell out and I couldn't do it. But tell him I tried and failed. It may comfort him to know I tried, Auna."
The door had opened an inch and somebody was listening behind it; but neither Margery nor her daughter knew that they were overheard.
"Mother, mother," cried Auna, "if he had known—if he'd only known! Why, he'd have come for you himself, and the whole world wouldn't have kept him from you!"
"There were reasons why he shouldn't know till I'd got to him. But that's all one now. Wrong or right, you can tell father I tried. In time that will be good to him to remember."
"So I will then. Oh, if you'd only come, you'd have got well so quick! You must come yet. You must be drove in a shut-up cab all the way. I'll tell father you tried, and then——"
Mrs. Huxam entered, without any indication that she had overheard this vital matter.
"Why, Auna!" she said. "Here already—popped in like a mouse. Don't you tire mother. She's had a bad night."
"Mother looks terrible ill," said Auna.
Margery had turned away to the wall, for a wave of excitement made her heart beat painfully and she felt faint. Judith ministered to her.
"I expect mother's talked enough," she said. "The doctor hasn't seen her yet. I wouldn't leave the goats' milk, because it isn't the right thing for her now. You can take it over to Aunt Jane for the baby. It will be just right for him."
"So I will then," said Auna. "And I'll wait till Dr. Briggs has seen mother, so as I can tell father what he says."
Mrs. Huxam agreed to this arrangement.
"You'd better go then, and come back in half an hour," she said quietly. "I'll tell you what doctor says presently."
Auna kissed her mother, who lay with closed eyes, and after the kiss, she whispered, "I'll tell him." Then she went downstairs, carrying her little milk can. And when she was gone, Judith spoke cheerfully to Margery, but made no mention of what she had overheard, though her mind was full of it. The old woman perceived a tremendous peril suddenly created by Margery's confession to Auna. A possibility existed of evading it; but the possibility was slight and the danger itself enormous. No instant disaster threatened, and yet the day could hardly end without bringing it. She saw a great battle lying immediately ahead and knew that for some temptations flight must be the only successful opposition. For the moment everything hinged upon Auna, and Auna was a broken reed in her grandmother's opinion. Auna had ceased to be single-hearted; she had never taken her stand, as her brothers and sister had taken it, on the side of religion and justice. Yet now into Auna's ears had been given a tremendous message—a message which might have been whispered by the devil himself rather than the poor victim of Bullstone's evil-doing. It was a message which, if it reached Margery's husband, would produce instant and violent response. Once let him know that Margery had so far condoned her wrongs as to attempt a return to Red House, and he might yet confound all, even in sight of salvation. For, from Judith's standpoint, salvation was now in sight. The message must not be delivered if she could prevent it, and she would have arrested Auna, locked her up, or taken any other direct action, had it been in her power to do so. But that was impossible; therefore she had asked the girl to return, in order to influence her and win a promise. At best, however, she doubted the value of a promise, even if she could win it. John Henry, Avis, or Peter she could have trusted to keep any promise given; Auna she did not trust, by virtue of the taint that made her put an erring father first in all things.
When presently her grandchild returned, Judith drew her into the little, front parlour, shut the door and set about her task. The doctor had offered scant shadow of hope and Mrs. Huxam perceived that he did not think Margery would live. To her that was already an accepted fact. But she knew many worse dangers than death.
"Auna," she said. "I hope no grandchild of mine would ever tell a lie."
Auna reflected, looking straight into the calm, white face. Her answer indeed demanded no thought; but her mind was already concerned with what might have inspired the question.
She was so long in answering that Judith expressed displeasure.
"Surely, surely, you're not godless enough to want to think about it, Auna?"
"Of course not, grandmother, I'm sure none of us ever told you a lie. Why for should we?"
"The devil's very clever at putting people in a position where there's temptations to lie. It's one of his favourite traps for boys and girls, and they have to be warned against it from their youth up. Now listen, Auna; and mind this: your dear mother's soul may be the matter. Because first I may tell you, she has gone very weak of late—weak in body and mind by the will of God."
"I know she's terrible weak in body, and she thinks she may die of it even; but her mind is all right, grandmother."
"Her mind is all wrong," answered Judith. "That's what too well I know, and you do not. And now her mind has gone wrong, then it is for all that love her to be doubly anxious and careful."
"Yes," said Auna. "For all that love her."
"It's God's will that the strong should fight for the weak, and never more than when the weak have run into danger unknowing. Human weakness is the devil's strength, and he knows it, and where the sick creature is there will that old vulture, the devil, be hopping round about. I'm speaking of your mother's everlasting soul, Auna, not her body. And it pleases God sometimes to let us worms do His work, even in such a high matter as a soul. Not long ago it was the Almighty's will that I should save your dear mother from a terrible danger. It was my blessing and pride and joy to come between my child and the devil, in all his fearful power and might; and a greater joy for a human parent God couldn't offer. That's done; the battle was won and your mother knows what I did for her. But while there's life in man, there's hope in the devil, and he's not done with mother yet."
Auna was indignant.
"The devil never had anything to do with dear mother," she said. "Nobody ever gave God less trouble than mother. She's good—good—and who don't know it?"
"Listen, and don't talk to me in that tone of voice. Just now, before you left her, it pleased the Lord that I should overhear what she was saying to you. I heard her tell you that she'd tried to go to Red House, didn't she?"
"Yes, grandmother."
"That was the devil, Auna—sleepless to catch your mother's soul; and the will to go was only less terrible than the deed. The deed was prevented; but now I've heard a very dreadful thing, because the will to do wrong may destroy the soul, just as well as the deed itself. And for that matter, Jesus Christ says one's as bad as the other."
She stopped to study the girl's face, but Auna only looked very sulky.
"And now," continued Mrs. Huxam, "you—you—her youngest child—have the blessed power to help your mother; and God's waiting and listening up in Heaven, to see if you will help her."
"I don't understand that."
"You will in a minute. You were told—not by your dear mother, Auna, but by the Evil One, who's often allowed to speak through our human lips, that she wanted to go back to Red House and couldn't; and she told you to tell your father that."
"So she did; and so I shall," answered Auna firmly.
"So you must not; that's why I was sent to overhear the fatal words and save you from repeating them to your father."
"I promised to, because mother thought it would make father happier; and so it will, granny; oh, it will do that when he knows."
"You promised, because you knew not why you promised, or who you promised. But you are not going to keep your promise, because to keep it would be threatening new danger to your mother's soul. A soul's never safe till it's out of the body, Auna. Always remember that. Many and many a soul has been lost on a death-bed, where the devil's grabbed them at the last moment."
"How would it hurt dear mother's soul to know that father was a little happier, granny?"
"It hurts your mother's soul to think on your father at all. I'm not your father's judge, and nothing that your mother, or anybody else, can do will alter the wages of such sins as his. And the way you act about your father is a very great sorrow to all of us; for you've been taught to know far better. But what matters now is that for your mother's sake—your dying mother's sake, Auna—he must not know what she said. Your mother's soul it may mean, for God wills that a soul shall hang on a thread above the bottomless pit sometimes; and such a little thing as a child's hand may push it down. Therefore the man must never know that your mother wanted to see him."
"Why not?" asked Auna. "How will it be bad for dear mother's soul that she's made poor father a little bit happier? Hasn't he had enough to bear?"
"You ask why. John Henry wouldn't ask why, nor yet Peter, nor Avis."
"I love my father a long sight better than they do; and I'm full of a great wanting to make him happier; and so's mother—full of a great wanting to do it too. And father's full of a cruel, fierce wanting to make her a bit happier if only he could get to her. And if he knew she was dying and longed to see him——"
Auna broke down and wept bitterly, while Mrs. Huxam considered. She pretended to assume a situation not as yet attained.
"Don't cry, but do your duty like a good girl, and leave the rest in Higher Hands, as we all must. There's a holy word that tells how a 'backbiting tongue hath cast out virtuous women, and deprived them of their labours; and whoso harkeneth to it shall never find rest.' That's what you are doing now, Auna, and neighbouring with one whose sentence is known and understood. But your Saviour may rescue you yet I hope. All you need to do now is to think on your poor, wronged mother, who has been deprived of her labours and is going to die. But she mustn't be robbed of her heavenly home as well—not by any word of yours. And so you promise, on your word of honour before God Almighty, not to tell your father, or any other living creature, what you heard from mother's lips this morning."
Auna began to see the object of this solemn command.
"You think that father, knowing that, would dash to dear mother willy-nilly?" she asked.
This, indeed, was the terror that now crowded close over Judith. She spoke and thought with absolute sincerity, believing that any contact with Jacob Bullstone now might largely endanger her daughter's hope of salvation. Indeed she felt the peril to be terrific—a direct encounter between herself and the Powers of Darkness. They were hard at work, as she expected them to be. Even did Auna finally give her word, such was the girl's apparent reaction to the influence of her father, that Mrs. Huxam already looked ahead and planned the next step. She was not going to trust her granddaughter in any case. Auna at least perceived the immediate peril and her grandmother answered her question.
"I fear it; for these awful threats are allowed by God," Judith replied. "I think if your lost father was to hear this, a great and terrible thing might happen, for he'd believe that it was your mother's real voice, because his eyes are darkened to truth, and he'd think this devil's message came from herself. The devil says that the next best thing to getting your mother back to Red House is to let your father know she wanted to come back. Therefore I'll beg you this instant moment, Auna, to promise me before the great, living God that you'll be dumb about it and not act the devil's messenger. Why do you hesitate? What are you made of? Is your mother's soul nothing to you?"
Judith went down on her knees and drew Auna beside her; but still the girl did not speak. She had not the bent of mind to echo the attitude of her grandmother, or respond to the awful convictions of the elder. But she was impressed. She knew that her grandmother had a deep knowledge of the next world, and she believed very firmly indeed that there were such places as heaven and hell. The idea that her mother might by the remotest possibility lose heaven, stung Auna sharply. From sorrow and terror, she began to grow dazed at this terrible glimpse into the snares that awaited even saintly souls. Was it possible that not her sad-eyed mother, but a crafty fiend lurking behind her pale lips, had said these things? For a moment she forgot her father, and then, under the stressful words of Judith, she promised not to tell him. But the very act of promising brought him back to her. Whether a devil had spoken them or not, it was very certain that the words she had heard from her mother would be of the utmost consolation and comfort to her father. That Auna knew exceedingly well; yet she had now promised; and she hated her grandmother as her young heart had never before hated any living thing.
Having sworn, she escaped without another word, and Judith perceiving the girl's suffering and hearing the panting indignation that followed her surrender, felt very far from certain that she would keep her oath. She believed that, as surely as Jacob Bullstone heard his wife had tried to come back to him, he would return to her and force his way into her presence, with the strength of a madman if need be; and she knew that between that inevitable sequel, with its possible consequences for Margery, there stood only the exceeding frail barrier of a wayward grandchild's promise. It was not enough for any margin of security and every mental energy must now be poured into the problem now confronting her—so Judith felt. She fell upon her knees again and remained for half an hour as motionless as the chair over which she bent. Then she rose, her mind affirmed and her decision taken. She perceived that an issue so tremendous could not be left to the doubtful honour of Auna, while she herself might take more certain steps to protect her child.
And meantime the girl went home in deepest tribulation. She had never lied, and for a long time her sorrow centred in the thought that she had given a promise not possible to break. Once she stopped and turned back, suddenly fired to see her grandmother again and take back her oath. But she knew that would be vain. She had promised and there could be no escape save through falsehood. Auna believed a lie to be among the deepest of crimes; yet in half an hour she was pursuing trains of thought that did not embrace her own soul's safety, but only her parents. Her mind ran wholly on her father first, and then upon her mother. A human instinct inclined her to doubt whether the outlook in the next world was as dangerous as her grandmother declared.
She hated going home at all now. She dawdled, wandered by the river, felt her heart full of a great pity for her father that this most precious information must be denied him.
"But of course it's no good telling dear father what the devil said," she reflected; and then, pursuing this melancholy thought, another arose out of it and Auna sat by the stream and stayed her progress, quite weighed down by an arrestive idea.
If the devil could talk through her dear mother's lips, then, surely, nothing that anybody said was quite safe, for it followed that other people might also be subjected to his dreadful cunning and innocently voice his purpose. And if so, why not her grandmother as well as anybody else? Evidently natural goodness could be no safeguard, for she knew her mother to be as good as an angel in heaven. Her father had said so a thousand times. Perhaps, indeed, thought Auna, the devil delighted to make the most saintly people his mouthpiece. It was such an added infamy as she could understand might well gratify him. But, in that case, her grandmother was the least likely to escape these awful attentions; and if the Evil One had been whispering to Auna through her mother's lips, was it not possible, nay probable, that he had also been speaking with the voice of Mrs. Huxam? Then the human mind of her, quickened by love to deal in sophistry, reflected on another argument. She had promised her grandmother one thing; but not before she had promised her mother an opposite thing. She could not, therefore, escape a lie. Only a choice of lies awaited her in any case.
Auna rose and proceeded home. She suddenly remembered how Jacob was waiting impatiently for news, and the question of the promise sank into a minor matter before the immediate necessity to tell him her mother was very ill. More than that Auna did not intend to say. She was not going to speak of death, because she had a suspicion that her grandmother had exaggerated the danger to frighten her and extort her promise.
She told her father of the grave condition reported and he was deeply perturbed. On the following day he visited the doctor with results already chronicled, and Peter it was who during this morning went to the post-office for news of Margery. He returned with the information that she was about the same; and upon Auna asking him if she was still so very white, Peter answered that she was. But later, when she was alone with her brother in the evening, there came the tremendous secret information that finally sent Auna in the small hours of the next day to her father's room.
For Peter was no hand at secrets and confessed to Auna that he had not seen their mother at all. His grandfather had bade him keep the information to himself for the present; but none the less Peter told Auna, commanding profound silence from her. Their mother had left Brent.
"Grandmother's took her away for a change," explained Peter. "And grandfather was awful down about it and in a proper fret. He says that mother's soul have got to be saved, and he said now was the appointed time. But where mother's been took to, to save her soul, I don't know, and grandfather wouldn't tell me. And I swore I wouldn't let it out; but it's so interesting I had to tell somebody. You don't matter so long as father doesn't know; and if he did it's no odds, I reckon, for he couldn't find her."
"You've told a lie, then," mused Auna, and her brother, somewhat uneasy, began to argue the point; but she was not blaming him.
"Nothing ever happens that didn't ought, anyway," said Peter. "Grandmother's told us that a million times, and it gets you round a good few corners—lies included—to remember it."
"So it does," admitted Auna.
She took this great information to bed with her, and after many sleepless hours could endure it no longer but crept to her father. Jacob lay awake, for he suffered deep misery over his wife's illness, while still far from any guess that extreme danger had developed. He had discounted the conversation with Dr. Briggs, perceiving that the medical man desired to hurt him, and he supposed that with time Margery would grow stronger again, as she had after previous periods of weakness. It was not yet a year since he had driven her away from him, and he could not believe that she had sunk beyond hope of rising again to health within so short a time. But troubled he was, for the ultimate reconciliation seemed no nearer. Christmas approached and he considered if at that date he might endeavour to break down the opposition. His thoughts again turned to Jane and Jeremy, then to Barlow Huxam himself. They had taken no notice of him at the wedding, but he had caught Mr. Huxam's eye and, though the postmaster looked away instantly, there had been no active enmity in his countenance. Jacob thus dawdled on the brink of sleep, unhappy enough, careworn enough, clinging to such shadowy hopes as rolled from time to time uppermost in the welter of thought.
Then came Auna and he lighted his candle, tucked her into bed and listened to her.
Once started the girl could not stop until she had told everything.
"Peter's lied and I'd sooner lie with Peter than keep my word with grandmother, and if the devil can make one person talk, why shouldn't he make another? And mother didn't sound in the least like the devil, and grandmother did," wept Auna pursuing her own reflections, but throwing no immediate light upon the reason for her nocturnal visit.
Jacob calmed her down and so learned, little by little, what his daughter desired him to know. It was impressed upon him that Margery was actually at the point of death, that she had endeavoured to come to him and failed, because Mrs. Huxam had prevented it; and that she had now been taken away by her mother—but whither Peter was not told.
Leaving this cruel load of knowledge with her parent, and surprised in her heart to find confession had so greatly calmed her spirit, Auna went back to bed and soon slept peacefully; while Jacob rose and dressed and prayed for the first glimmer of the day that would launch him upon his quest. Enormous joy and profoundest grief clashed within him. A great hope dawned with the morning: that he and Margery might yet come together and that her body's salvation lay with him.
No bird had broken silence and only the sleepless river purred under a clear, white heaven as he rode out. Above him the morning star shone, like a nail of gold on a field of ivory, and lifting his heart to the hills round about him, Jacob found his mood calm, patient, inexorably determined. He had never thought to wield such a weapon as Auna had now put into his hands; but no adverse power could stand against it, for it came direct from Margery herself. She had striven to reach him and failed. Now it was his turn.