He returned to his bed and suffered a flood of desolate thoughts to flow through his mind, till barn cocks were crowing against each other in the grey of dawn. He got up, threw open his window and saw stars still hanging over Shipley Tor. Then he returned to his bed again, and worn out, slept at last. It wanted but five minutes to the breakfast hour when he awoke, then dressed hurriedly and descended unshaved to his children.
He was very taciturn; but they did not notice that he kept a heavier silence than usual and chattered among themselves.
"'Red Beauty's' got her puppies, father," said Avis. "Four."
"Good—good," he answered.
John Henry was going to Bullstone Farm for the day and meant to spend some time with Bob Elvin at Owley also.
"Mother thought that when I went, I might take one of the ox tongues she cured, for Mr. Elvin, because he can't let down his food very well nowadays," said John Henry.
"An excellent notion," answered his father. "Be sure you remember it."
"And ask Bob if he's coming Sunday," said Avis.
John Henry laughed knowingly.
"No need to ask, I reckon. I'll tell him you've got a new hat, with a jay's feather in it. He couldn't shoot a jay for you, but I did."
"I'll lay he'll shoot a jay when he's got time," answered Avis.
"'Got time,'" sneered John Henry. "If I was after a maiden, I'd make time to shoot an elephant, if she wanted one."
They chattered and Avis was well pleased. Their talk drifted past Jacob where he sat. They did not notice that he ate no breakfast.
Time dragged dreadfully for the man and a letter from his wife did not shorten it. He half hoped that she would mention Winter; but Margery made no allusion to the farmer; and Bullstone knew that if she had mentioned him, he must still have read evil into the fact. He told himself that. Margery could not have met with Winter by an accident in a place so large as Plymouth. If she had met him, it was by design. He made himself believe that they had not met. But he intended to be sure, though he would not ask her. Margery's letter was frank enough and her time appeared to be fully engaged. She was feeling better and stronger. She sent directions for home and wrote of things to be told to the servant, to Avis and the boys. Auna was enjoying herself and loved to be on the sea.
Adam Winter would be coming back on Tuesday, according to Samuel; therefore Jacob invented a message for him and sent Peter to deliver it. But he returned to say that Mr. Winter had not come home. The calves duly arrived and were safe at Shipley; but Adam delayed for a few days, to make a longer holiday, as Miss Winter had suggested.
Bullstone battled in secret and came to a bitter conclusion. It was exceedingly unlikely that such a man as the master of Shipley would dawdle by the sea for his health's sake. Some far greater and more pressing reason kept him from home. Jacob raged over this, departed from himself and determined upon an action entirely foreign to his genius. He resolved to see Winter and challenge him. He planned to confront the man and woman when they returned and judge them out of their own mouths. But he knew, even while he designed such drastic deeds, that they would never happen.
Winter returned some days sooner than Margery was due to do so. She had, indeed, written a second letter to Jacob, asking if he would let her extend her holiday for three days at the entreaty of her uncle, who made a great favour of it. She apologised for the delay, but knew he would not mind. He raised no objection, and avoided Adam Winter, desiring now that he should first find whether Margery made any mention of him when she came home.
He drove to Brent and met his wife and daughter at the appointed time; and he found Margery well and in unusually cheerful spirits. Like every woman whose existence is subject to the tyranny of the passing hour, her nervous energy and temper had both gained tone from rest. But she declared herself as beyond measure delighted to be home again. Auna, too, was much more talkative than usual. She had brought her father and brothers and sister presents from Plymouth, and again and again declared her delight at the sea. Twice she had been upon it and seen a trawl shot and fish caught. But neither she nor her mother had anything to say of Adam Winter, and, after fighting with himself not to do so, Jacob took opportunity to question Auna when her mother was not present. It argued a new attitude and he suffered before sinking to it. Indeed for some time he resisted the temptation; but the thirsty desire to discover things possibly hidden conquered pride. He convinced himself that he must leave no channel unexplored and face every painful need to attain reality; while in truth he lived in a world of increasing unreality and his values steadily began to have less correspondence with fact.
Auna caused a passing revulsion, and his heart smote him before her ingenuous replies to the questions that he put. He asked for no direct revelation, but came to the matter sidelong and sought to know what his wife did for entertainment on the days that Auna went to sea. The child was apparently familiar with all that Margery had done on shore while they were separated; but the circumstantial account of her mother's doings, evidently related to Auna on her return, awoke new suspicions. For why should Margery have been at pains to tell the child so much and relate her doings so fully? Auna had not seen or heard of Mr. Winter. Jacob mentioned the fact that their neighbour was in Plymouth at the same time as the child and her mother; but he did not follow the statement with any direct question. He mentioned the coincidence as of no importance, and when Auna declared that she had not known it, added casually, "Mother did not see him, then?"
"I'm sure she'd have told great-uncle if she had," answered the child, "because he's so good to everybody, and great-uncle would very like have given Mr. Winter a treat and let him go trawling."
Whereupon Jacob, stricken to passing self-contempt, made one of his great, periodic efforts to believe that all was well with his life. Margery had come home stronger and more cheerful than he had seen her for some time. She was full of activity, and she found her home very sufficient for present happiness and interest. She seemed a closer and more understanding friend than usual to her husband, and he argued with himself and strove to build hopeful resolutions upon her good-will. But to attempt such a position now, or regain peace, even for a brief interval, though it entailed immense concentration on Jacob's part, was in reality impossible, for the man had reached a main attitude from which no final retirement was likely until the actual truth should be attained—either to support and vindicate him, or confound him for ever. He struggled to some vague standpoint of hope for a little while. It served him but two days, then perished before a meeting with Adam Winter.
Adam saw Jacob pass his gate on the way to Brent and hastened to stop him before he went out of earshot. He flung down his fork, for he was digging potatoes, and joined his neighbour. Winter's object was only to thank Jacob for tending his sheep-dog; and when he had done so, he spoke of an incident from the immediate past as though it had no significance whatever.
"Funny how small the world is," he said. "To think that two such stop-at-homes as your wife and me should actually meet in a great place like Plymouth!"
Jacob seemed to forget that Adam was part of the tale himself. For a strange moment he looked through him merely as the teller—as a machine narrating fearful facts and not implicated in them. His mind thrust Winter and Margery back to Plymouth. He was alert, strung to acute tension. He pretended.
"Odd you should meet sure enough," he said, and felt the perspiration break on his forehead.
"Yes, faith, I saw her looking in a shop window in George Street. 'Hullo, Mrs. Bullstone, nothing ever happens but the unexpected!'" I said, "and she jumped around. Two poor strangers in a strange country we were, and glad to meet according. We drank a cup of tea together. But you'll have heard all this."
"Yes—yes—she told me all about it. I must get on now—I must get on now, Winter."
He hurried away and Adam, disappointed of a talk, looked after him in some surprise. He had not the faintest notion that Jacob was distressed at the matter of their few words, yet could not fail to see perturbation. This appeared still more apparent five minutes later, for then the farmer marked his neighbour walking back to Red House. He had evidently changed his mind about Brent and was now returning home.
In truth a great storm had raged in Jacob after leaving Shipley and he was tossed to confusion among frantic thoughts. He could not understand; he read guile into everything that concerned his wife. He assured himself that, as soon as his back was turned, Adam would go up the valley to speak with Margery. He felt certain Adam had read him, and was not deluded into thinking that he had really known these facts. Adam would doubtless perceive he had made a mistake to mention his meeting with Margery at all; and he would then hurry off to warn Margery. Inspired by this suspicion and feeling it vital that he should see Margery before she learned of Winter's conversation and admission, he turned back and made haste to anticipate the farmer.
But Adam was still working in his garden. Jacob guessed that he might meet Margery coming from Red House to see the other man; for she knew that he had gone to Brent. Jacob told himself that it would be wiser in future to keep his movements a secret. But, after all, Margery was not upon the way, and she expressed genuine astonishment when he appeared.
"Forgotten something?" she asked.
"I don't forget," he answered. "It's for others to forget. But I remembered certain facts, and they saved my journey. I turned just beyond Shipley Bridge."
He made no mention of Adam Winter, but changed his mind again, said nothing and took occasion to keep at home until Margery had next met Adam herself. This happened within a week, when she went to Shipley Farm to see Amelia. Her manner was pensive after she returned, and Jacob expected that he would now have some story from her. He knew that she had met Winter and doubtless learned from him how the thing she had chosen to conceal was out. For his own reasons apparently Adam had chosen to record the meeting, while Margery had not. But why had Winter mentioned the incident at all? How much easier to have said nothing. His wife's manner changed after her visit to Shipley Farm, and on the evening afterwards, she asked Jacob to walk with her up the valley in the idle, sunset hour.
Instantly he guessed what she was going to say, and a great regret flashed through him that he had not himself challenged her, after seeing Adam Winter. Then her version of the meeting might have possibly differed from the farmer's and helped him towards the truth; now that they had spoken together, no doubt she would have heard what he had said and echo his version.
Jacob decided to hear, yet believed that he knew what he would hear.
Above the kennels, Auna River wound through a deep place, where the moor descended to her margins and only a fisherman's path ran through the brake fern. Between steep and verdant banks the waters came, and upon the hills round about flashed gems of golden green, where springs broke out of the granite and fell from mossy cradles to the valley. Here and there the water-side opened on green spaces cropped close by the rabbits, and at intervals a little beach of pebble and sand extended by the shallows of the stream. Now the river spread her arms to make an islet, where grey sallows grew and the woodrush; and sometimes she narrowed to a glimmering cleft, then by a waterfall leapt forward again into the light. A warm evening glow lay upon the eastern hill and each isolated stone, or tree, burnt with sunset brightness; but the valley was in shadow, very cool after the heat of a late August day.
"I always love this place and this time," said Margery. "It's full of memories—precious ones to me."
"I thought you were like Billy Marydrew and never looked back," he answered.
"You must look back, to save heartbreak, if the past is happier than the present. To remember pure happiness—that's something."
"It only makes the present worse than it need be. To know what life might be and feel what it is—that's the bitter spring where half the discontent in the world rises from."
"And the jealousy and mistrust and bad will too, I dare say. Look here, Jacob, I'm cruel sorry about Adam Winter. I'm sorry for myself, and sorrier for him."
"But not for me?"
"Yes, for you, because you're such an infant still—groping and blind for all your wisdom—and no more able to read character than a child. I met Adam Winter in Plymouth. I was alone. Auna had gone to sea with Uncle Lawrence and I'd been to the Guildhall, where there was a great concert. But I came out before the end, because I was tired of it, and looking in a shop window Adam found me. We went and had tea together. And then he told me his aunt had begged him to stop a few days more, so we fixed to meet again, and we did do, when Auna was to sea again. And once more we had tea in a big shop in the midst of the town."
"But you never breathed a word of this until you found that Winter had told me about it."
"I did not, because I feared it might vex you."
"Vex me! Is that all? A pretty small word."
"Surely large enough for such a small thing. It couldn't, at worst, do more than vex you to know I'd met a good neighbour and drank tea with him."
"I'd give my immortal soul to look in your heart," he answered.
"It's always open for you, if you'd believe your eyes."
For a moment he did not speak. Then he asked a question:
"And why did you do what you knew would vex me?"
"I did it because I wanted to do it, being sure no honest reason existed against. I set no store by it and never thought of it again. If I'd thought of it, I might have asked Mr. Winter not to mention the matter; but—no, that's not true neither. I certainly should never have dreamed of asking him that."
"Why?"
"Good Lord! Can't you see? What would it have made you look like. I'm proud for you as well as myself. I know you wouldn't have liked me to drink tea with him; but how could I tell him that? He would have wanted to know why you didn't—and then—for that matter I don't know why myself. I only knew in an unconscious sort of way, remembering silly things in the past, that you wouldn't have liked it."
A hundred questions leapt to Jacob's lips; but he did not put them. She was, he thought, guiding the conversation away from the actual event. She had told him what she had arranged with Winter to tell him and no more; and that done, now wanted to leave the subject, saddle him with folly, call him a child, and so come out as the aggrieved party. But this he would not suffer.
"Did you know Winter was going to Plymouth?" he asked.
"I did not. He only decided to go after I left."
"But he knew you were there?"
"Yes; but he was just as surprised as I that we met."
"So you say."
Then she flamed and turned upon him, in such anger as he had never seen from her before.
"What are you doing? What are you trying to do? D'you want to smash up your home? D'you want me away? If my record these seventeen years is that of a woman you can't trust out of your sight, then say so and I shall know what to do. But think—think for God's sake first, and use your wits, and get your mind clear of all this beastliness. Try and look at life from my point of view, for a change, if you can. I'm many years younger than you and I married you for pure love, well knowing that I'd have to give up a few things—nothing compared with the joy of wedding with you—but little knowing how many things I'd have to give up. I've lived here—and never hungered for the pleasures—the fun and stir—that meant so much to me; I've let much that would have made my life fuller and happier go without a sigh, because I had what was better; and now—now, in sight of middle age—this. And I'll not endure it, Jacob. Much I'd endure—anything—everything in justice and reason but this is out of reason. It's a needless thorn—a scourge for an innocent back. You wish you could look in my heart. I wish to God you could; and you'd see what would shame you—shame you. D'you know what stock I am, if you don't know what I am myself? And I tell you this: I've been a good, faithful mother to your children and a good, faithful wife to you. That all the world knows, and if I was to start and whine about being kept like a broody hen under a coop, there's many would sympathise with me and blame you; but if you were to whisper in any ear on earth that I was not all I ought to be, the people would call you a moon-struck liar—and that's what you would be."
"I don't shout my troubles, Margery."
"No; because you well know what they'd sound like if you did. Instead you breathe the bad air of 'em, and let 'em foul and sicken you. They only look out of your eyes when I look into them. You take cruel, good care to hide them from everybody else—and so do I—for common decency. Why d'you hide them? Tell me that. And I tell you I won't much longer hide them—I swear I won't. If you think evil of me, then let it out. Point your finger at me before the people and hear what they'll say about it. I've lived your life without a murmur, but if so to do, and sink myself in you as I have done, is to win no better reward than—— There, we'd best to leave it before I say what could never be unsaid."
He did not immediately answer. He was impressed—for a moment relieved. Her indignation rang true. He felt disposed to express sorrow and even promise practical proofs of his regret at causing her such suffering; but he considered deeply first. He had to convince himself that these words were sincere and not merely uttered by a woman acting cleverly to hide her cherished secrets. They sounded as though from her heart: she had never spoken with such passion; but such a clever woman might be quite capable of pretending, if she thought it wise. He wanted to believe her; for if he could do so, it would lift his immense agony off his shoulders at one gesture and lighten the load of the past as well as promise some brighter hope in the present. He perceived that, if he could believe her, the situation was saved, for he would have no difficulty in thinking of a thousand things to prove the sincerity of his own regret and the size of his own amendment. He would not be ashamed to confess his errors to Margery, if she could convince him that they were errors.
They walked silently side by side for a few hundred yards and she waited for him to speak. She grew calmer and realised the quality of her tremendous counter-attack. She had never stripped him bare to himself in this fashion; but she did not regret a word. She was hating him heartily while she spoke. Only his tyranny and her long endurance held her thoughts. Apart from his own troubles, which she scorned as the folly of a lunatic, she was glad that opportunity had offered to remind him of hers. He had outraged her, and no word that she could speak was too hard for him. So she still felt.
Her temper rose again at his continued silence.
"Things are at a climax now," she said, "and I won't have no more doubt and darkness between us. It's wrong and sordid and mean and hateful. You've got to say you're sorry, Jacob—you've got to tell me straight out, in plain words, that you're sorry for what you've thought against me, for God knows how long. You've got to do it, and you've got to show me you mean it. Either that, or I'll leave you. I'll go and live my own clean life and not share yours another week."
"That's quite true, Margery. There's no third course."
"Decide then; decide, decide this instant moment if you call yourself a man. Why should I breathe the same air as you and suffer what I'm suffering now while you make up your mind? Why should you have to make up your mind? What devil's got in you to make you doubt a woman like me? Or do you doubt all women? If you do, you're mad and ought to be locked up. When I think of it, I wish to Christ this river had drowned me into peace afore ever I gave myself to you at all."
She flung herself on the ground and wept; her anger expired. She was only bitterly conscious of dishonour and degradation. Not built to suffer very deeply, or very long, suffering, when it did come, broke like a hurricane over Margery and beat her down before its onset. But she had a spirit to spring up again, a spirit avid for such hope and happiness as might be within reach. It was a spirit as innocent as a child's, and her pleasures were such that any child might have shared them with her.
Jacob Bullstone slowly expressed contrition. He imagined that he believed her; and the conviction plunged through his soul, sweeping bare the rocks and channels. It was real and did a temporary, cathartic work; but while it cleansed the stuff he was made of, it could not alter the stuff. By an effort of will be abased himself. He knelt down beside her and prayed for forgiveness. He poured scorn upon himself and talked until, knowing that much speech was foreign to him, Margery began to be fearful of this phenomenon and her tears dried. She bade him cease at last; but he persisted and showed himself a new man in her eyes—a strange man, whom she presently began to pity. She knew that Jacob would never be the same to her again; but she did not know whether he would stand ultimately higher, or lower, as a result of what had happened between them. She was weary and unspeakably sorrowful, for her heart could not be hard and her natural sympathies were large. He seemed to roll back time and even speak with the voice of the lover from the far past. He pleaded for absolute forgiveness; he was very humble and he promised on his oath to change from that hour.
"God helping," he said, "this is a day that shall see us nearer and dearer to each other than ever we have been. And I ask you to forgive, because I want you to do that before you see what I shall do, Margery, and not afterwards. Bear with me if you can a bit longer yet; trust the future till I show you what I'll make of it."
She was glad enough to accept all that he said and to express regret for her own words.
"Let us forget for mercy's sake. Let us forget every syllable and go on with our lives," she said.
"Forget never," he answered; "but go on with our lives we will. Watch me."
She had it on her lips to add:
"And for Christ's sake, don't watch me;" but she did not endanger the harmony now attained. She remembered how they had walked in this place as lovers, and she put her hand in his. Thus they went back silently together.
A position was defined and an understanding attained between husband and wife, while the unconscious party to their difficulties knew nothing. Thus Adam Winter, in absolute ignorance of the fact, stood upon the brink of events for which he was not responsible—his life being, as all lives, much at the mercy of his fellow-creatures.
Margery's pride kept her tongue still, for she would have endured anything rather than confess the truth. The truth not only stultified Jacob, but it would cast an unjust doubt upon herself if revealed to any other. She knew that many husbands had cause for jealousy and she guessed that, if she warned Winter of Jacob's weakness, he might, while certainly taking no blame upon himself, judge that no smoke existed without fire and imagine that, in some quarter, she had given Bullstone a real cause for his emotion. She valued the farmer's good opinion too highly to risk implanting any such suspicion in his mind. She saw no reason why she should not be fair to herself, and indeed little temptation to speak to anybody longer existed. She had accepted Jacob's apology and the promise of contrition, and since the latter presently took an active form, there rose in her a genuine thankfulness that the long-drawn horror was dispelled. She leapt to welcome the relief. She grew happier and the sensation of increasing resentment, that she should be called to endure his distrust—the sense of living under perpetual insult which she had indicated to him in her anger—died completely.
Jacob himself made a supreme effort and performed actions that presented great difficulties to him. He ruminated for days in solitude and then took two steps, the one trivial, yet rich with satisfaction for Margery; the other momentous. He hesitated long concerning the latter; but opportunity for the first quickly offered and he took it.
To the amazement of his family Bullstone announced a day of pleasuring, and it was not such a day as he sometimes planned—no picnic into the wastes of the Moor, or other excursion, which meant little delight for anybody but himself and Auna. He proposed to take them all to Totnes Races—a jollity beyond their utmost expectations. The youngsters were openly incredulous, only Margery understood and appreciated his sacrifice. The day passed without a cloud and, when night came, his wife thanked Jacob in words that repaid him well.
"I'm not going to pretend to myself that you enjoyed it," she said; "and I know, with your nature, you couldn't, my dear. The trains were enough, without anything else. And yet I wouldn't have had you away, and I wouldn't have gone without you. But you've given a mint of pleasure to us all; and the children are grateful, and I'm more than grateful."
"Let be," he said. "It was a well spent day and I'm none the worse for it, if those I care most for are the better."
But greater things were in his mind and, when the news came that Joseph Elvin was near his end, Bullstone took action. He hesitated long, for he looked ahead and told himself that the cost of failure would stir banked fires and waken evil fears he was fighting to destroy for ever.
He designed a great proposition and everything depended upon another. Immense good must result if the other could meet him, and a stroke precious for his peace be accomplished; but should his suggestion be opposed and declined, then more than passing disappointment would be the result. He reached a point where a serious hitch delayed decision. The man he proposed to approach was Adam Winter, and now, labouring over every detail of the coming conversation, he tried to look at it from Adam's point of view. Immediately his mind was up in arms. Everything hinged on motive, and the great problem centred in Winter's attitude and Winter's secret opinions of what inspired the offer about to be made to him. Bullstone was almost minded to abandon his project after viewing it from this standpoint. For, though to any other man, his motive must be obvious enough and grounded in Jacob's own advantage, to this particular man it was possible it might appear in another light. For Jacob knew very little of Winter and he could not dismiss the weight of past prejudice. It seemed impossible that there had never been anything whatever on the other side, and that his own accumulated tortures and tribulations were all self-inflicted. Adam surely must have some shadowy inkling that he was not a favourite of Bullstone's, and his conscience must indicate the reason. Jacob had reached a point of self-deception from which it was impossible that he could regard Winter as absolutely innocent in thought. And that being so, might not the master of Shipley suspect something lay hidden under the problem to be presented and the offer to be made? Might he not, in truth, guess at the vital reason for Bullstone's approach?
For some weeks Jacob delayed and wearied himself with this problem. Had he submitted it to Margery, she had instantly solved it: that he knew; and he knew how she would solve it. She would assure him that the last shadows still haunting his mind were unworthy of him and might well be dismissed. She would declare his suspicion absurd and reiterate her assurance that he was putting into the mind of Adam imaginary ideas which had never entered it. But along that road was danger and he had no desire to reveal thoughts that would check Margery's present happiness or suggest that he was going back on his word. She believed him purged. Then a new fear crowded down upon him. For Margery must presently hear of his offer to Adam, and how would she take it? If Winter might read into it an inner motive, how much more certainly would she do so.
Again he hung fire; and then Joseph Elvin died and the need arose for decision. In the event of failure, he had already determined what he would do. Indeed the alternative entirely satisfied him, and so far as Owley Farm was concerned, he had very little real difficulty. All interested in the matter believed that he was going to allow Robert Elvin to succeed his father. If, therefore, Adam Winter declined his offer of Owley, which was the great step he designed to take—it would be handed to Robert, in whom Jacob felt complete trust. Now one decision solved the problem of Margery, if she and Adam were honest. Bullstone decided that none but Winter himself must know of the offer. Thus, if he declined it, nobody need be any the wiser, and things might take the course generally anticipated. From this point another move struck upon Jacob's mind, calculated still further to ensure secrecy so far as everybody but Adam was concerned. This came out when the men met on the evening of Joe Elvin's funeral.
Winter, his aunt and many other neighbours, including the Huxams, Jeremy and his wife, and the party from Red House, saw the dead man lowered into his grave; and by appointment on the same night, Jacob visited Shipley Farm to speak with Winter. He had determined to offer him Owley and make the way smooth; but he had also determined that the world must suppose the suggestion, if accepted, had come from Adam and not himself. He had everything at his finger ends, and had so ordered the matter that not Margery knew whither he was bound, when he left Red House after supper.
Jacob felt confident that his proposals ought to be accepted, for Owley was a far stronger and larger farm than Shipley. Its ground was richer and cleaner, its flocks had direct access to some of the finest grazing on the moor. Moreover the house was bigger and better conditioned, while it stood nearer to Brent and the railway than Mr. Winter's present habitation.
The men sat together and Jacob wasted no time. The vital points he anticipated.
"As for rent," he said, after detailing his suggestions, "I should will that to be the same as you pay here—no more and no less. There are two conditions only: that you take on Bob Elvin, if he would like you to do so; and that you let it be understood that this suggestion came from you, not me. That may sound like craft in your ears; but the point is this: young Elvin hoped that I would trust him to carry on, and failing you, I should do so. I would, however, naturally prefer a grown and experienced man; and if you come to me and offer to go there, nobody could question my wisdom in putting you before the lad. That's all there is to it; and if you like to go over next spring, I should be glad."
Nothing but frank gratitude greeted Bullstone's offer. Adam, as the rest of the world, knew him for a man who did good things in abrupt and secret ways, and he regarded the suggestion, that he should improve his state by taking Owley, as one prompted by nothing but the good-will of the man who made it. That he should have put any other interpretation upon it was impossible. A kindly man himself, only prevented by circumstances from generosity, none could have been quicker to weigh the significance of such a handsome proposal; and when he replied, after half a minute's silence, he dwelt first on what he conceived the spirit behind Jacob's speech.
"A mighty good offer and I value it," said Winter. "I'm over and above pleased, because it shows your large heart, which didn't want showing, I'm sure, and also your opinion of me. We much like to be rated high by those we rate high ourselves; and you wouldn't have said such a thing if you hadn't felt Owley was safe with me. I'm proud of that."
"So much goes without saying, Winter. I know you'll do all that can be done and look after it well enough. Here at Shipley, it's making bricks without straw half your time—a thankless grind. You'd have an easier and fruitfuller job there."
"I know all that. I was too set on showing my pleasure to go into the thing for the minute, and if I had only myself to think on, I'd take you. But there's my aunt and brother."
"Well, they'd be a lot more comfortable than at Shipley."
"Just the opposite. You know how people fit into a place. My old woman could no more shift now than a snail out of its shell; and if Sammy thought he'd got to leave Shipley, he'd have the house out of windows and make a proper tantara. Such a thing would throw him over altogether, I reckon. It was a terrible business getting him here; but he was near twenty year younger then."
Jacob regarded him in astonishment. The objections appeared too slight to be sincere.
"Surely Samuel would soon get used to the thought," he said.
"Not him," answered Adam. "His mind—so to call it—hates change worse than anything; the leastest trifle altered makes him sulky and wicked for a month. There's a dangerous side to him none knows but me. I assure you I'm telling truth. I'd go, and mighty glad to do so; but while Samuel lives, we can't leave here."
He was so definite that argument did not suggest itself to Bullstone. His mind was soon burrowing in its accustomed channels; and, grasping the fact that his offer had been declined, he fell into gloom. He was full of suspicion at once. The reason for refusal had come so pat that it seemed as though Adam were prepared with it. Yet he submitted a most frivolous objection. Jacob had indirectly assured Winter large increase of prosperity; and was it likely that any practical man would decline such improved conditions on the plea of discomfort for a weak-minded brother?
Bullstone began to grow fresh doubts. It was clear that Adam had no mind to go beyond the immediate radius of Red House. Meantime Winter spoke and reiterated his gratification.
"I shall always remember it," he said, "and I'd like to brag about it, if I didn't know you'd deny me. Besides you say it mustn't be known."
"To nobody," answered Jacob. "If you've turned down the offer once for all, I can only say I'm sorry and a bit surprised—especially at the reason you give. Your aunt wouldn't have made much fuss if she knew you were a gainer, and your poor brother could have been managed, as you well know how to manage him. However, you say 'no,' so Bob Elvin shall have it. But not a word about this to anybody—to anybody whatever. I'll ask you to promise that, please."
"Of course. My word's given."
"Not to any of my people either."
"I quite understand, Bullstone. And may the chance offer for me to do you a good turn. I'd be glad to get it and take it."
"As for that, you've had your chance to-night, and won't take it," answered the other, rising. He refused a drink and went his way. The night was dark and he dawdled in thought on Shipley Bridge for a few moments with the din of the river in his ear and one white streak of the fall, like a ghost, flickering up and down in the blackness of the rocks beneath. He was disappointed. A thousand doubts and dismays arose from this reverse. He worked himself into a turmoil before he reached home, and his native weakness, resolutely opposed of late, broke from restraint and moved along the old, tormenting ways. One fact dominated the situation. Winter would not go farther off, despite the immense advantages of so doing. It followed that to remain in reality represented for him still greater privileges.
Jacob sank deeper and began to imagine maddening incidents as a result of this refusal. He saw Winter secretly relating this story to Margery. Perhaps she would laugh at it. Thus his own defeated plan liberated the old, insensate terrors and freed a force that threatened to destroy the fortifications he had lifted with such toil. The citadel was undefended again. Yet, after the first assault, he came in a measure back to his newer self and strove to convince his mind that Adam Winter had told the truth. He tried desperately hard to make himself believe it, and partially succeeded.
Life at this season demanded much attention. Special work of preparation for a big dog show was in hand and John Henry would soon leave his home for Bullstone Farm. Margery mourned the pending loss.
"The house won't be the same without him," she said. But the boy comforted her. He was full of energy and hungry to begin serious work, where some day he would reign as master.
"Don't you fret," he begged his mother. "I shall visit you of a Sunday, and I've promised grandmother to go in to chapel very regular, so we shall meet there, if not here."
They knew they would see but little of him at Red House, however, and that moved Margery to sorrow. It was the first empty place, the first nestling away. His sisters also regretted the coming change; but Peter, who had always been overshadowed by John Henry, felt no great concern. As for Jacob, he was indifferent. He knew that his son did not esteem him, for the lad's character in no way resembled his own. He was a bustling, pushing youth, steadfast and of fixed opinions—a Pulleyblank, as Mrs. Huxam delighted to point out.
Thus stress of circumstances for a time intruded; then, with more leisure, Jacob's spirit lost ground. Events aroused disquiet; paltry incidents were magnified into ominous evils. He sank to setting little traps for his wife, but she never fell into them. She did not even see them; but he suspected that she had seen them, and waited for her to protest and express indignation. Had she done so, he was prepared. The fact that she took no notice was set down to cunning on her part, and it wrought fresh evil within him. Thus secrecy and ignorance did their work and Margery, entirely absorbed with the preparations for her son's departure, existed unaware that her husband had returned to the darkness of his illusions. In truth she was thinking very little about him at this period. John Henry filled her thoughts.
For the first time Peter Bullstone went to the great annual Cruft's International Dog Show with Barton Gill. Jacob exhibited every year, but very seldom accompanied his dogs to London; and now his son was allowed the grand experience of "Cruft's."
"You'll soon be old enough to do this work on your own," promised the boy's father, and Peter set forth, with Mr. Gill to take care, not only of him, but the six Irish terriers entered to uphold the fame of Red House.
John Henry was gone to Bullstone Farm, and home to Margery seemed very empty without him; but she often saw him and he came, at his father's direction, to Sunday dinner when he could do so.
Then happened an incident steeped in deep emotion for husband and wife. It was a quality of Jacob's failure to reason that his life, down to its most trifling incidents, suffered contamination. As existence, even to the least details, will wake the breath of creative imagination in an artist, so, where a passion has obtained complete mastery, no minute event of life but is unconsciously passed through the test of that noble, or vitiated, outlook on all things. The smallest action challenges the paramount emotion and is illuminated by that gracious, or evil, light.
Thus, when Jacob Bullstone, upon a February day, saw Adam Winter strolling up the river valley with his gun on his shoulder, the sight set fire to thought as usual; and it did more. An appetite, stilled of late under press of normal life, had quickened after its rest. An ugly idea instantly moved in Bullstone's brain and he resisted it; then it returned and he attended to it. His mind worked, until presently he told himself that the inspiration, suddenly flashed to him, was good rather than evil. It sprang adult and powerful. It did not grow. He had plunged into it almost before he knew it was upon him, and he had taken the first step before considering the last. He was swept away; and in five minutes the base thing had been done, for yielding to sudden, overpowering impulse, he acted. He returned from the kennels, told Margery that Adam Winter had gone up the valley to shoot snipe, and then, after a pause, declared his intention of visiting a friend at Brent.
"I'm free for the minute and have been owing him a call for a month of Sundays," he said. "I'll be back sometime; but you needn't expect me till you see me."
He changed his coat and hat and left the house quickly; then, before reaching Shipley Bridge, he turned right-handed up the hill, skirted the copse that crowned it and plunged into the shaggy pelt of the slopes behind Red House. Hence, himself unseen, he could observe the valley beneath him and the path that passed along beside the river. He moved fast and had soon reached his destination and thrown himself into a hollow over which stood a naked thorn. Here he was invisible, while his eyes commanded the vale beneath. He could see Winter beyond the river islets and mark his fox-terrier working through the fallen brake and tangle—a white spot in the sere. Nothing else moved and he panted from his swift actions and watched the vale. Then shame rose, like a fog, and chilled the ferment of his mind. What had he done? Fired by opportunity, driven by awakened, raging lust of doubt, he had abandoned his rational purpose for the day and set another trap for Margery. What was he now doing? Having lied to her, he was spying upon her in cold blood. He revolted against the naked vileness of such a statement and sought to clothe it in sophistry, that it should be bearable. He assured himself that he did his wife no wrong, since she was ignorant of his action and must ever remain so if innocent; while, for himself, this test, painful though it was, might prove a godsend and reassure his mind and cleanse his doubts for ever. If she did not come, a weight must roll off him and peace return; if she did come, he would see her actions and measure the significance of them. In either case he was justified. And while he argued thus, he felt the sickness of his soul. He planned to give her half an hour, then he would go on his way to Brent and do what he had promised to do. He was too far from the valley in his present watching-place and now moved down, sulking like a fox through the gullies on the hillside and keeping out of sight of any possible spectator. He proceeded a hundred yards, then found a ridge above a badger's holt—a hole between two blocks of granite that supported each other.
He reflected with his eyes on the valley and each moment heartened him. He heard Winter's gun—the faint report of two barrels fired quickly one after the other, but Adam was now out of sight. That he should in reality be shooting was a good sign. He had evidently not taken the gun as a blind, with his thoughts elsewhere. Reason strove with Bullstone. Only twenty minutes remained and then he would be gone. From beneath the river lifted its murmur in the clear cold air. The low sun had already withdrawn behind the hills and the valley lay in shadow, while the sky above it was full of light. Jacob felt the contrast between this purity and peace and his own spirit. Again and again he dragged out his watch and wished that time would hasten and liberate him. Before the end he had grown conscious of great evil within him and suffered despair under his weakness—the passing despair of a drunkard, or gambler. Then he heard a rustling and a trampling. His milch goats had wandered up a green lane in the hill, where grass extended through the banks of the fallen bracken. There were half a dozen of them and a kid or two.
Seven minutes yet remained to complete the half hour and Bullstone was already preparing to be gone. Then he saw Margery. She entered the valley from a gate beyond the kennels and came forward. She wore a red woollen coat and a white sunbonnet. His eyes grew hot and he felt his heart beat so fast that a mist blurred the conspicuous vision below. For a few moments he lost her and rubbed his eyes. She did not reappear and he lay staring at the empty valley and hoping he had only seen a shadow conjured out of his own thoughts. Then a slight, brown figure appeared and he saw Auna running after her mother. She, too, was lost and another moment later Jacob perceived his wife ascending the hill. She lifted her voice and he understood that she was only there to call in the goats.
Thus he was thrown from one shock to another: now thankful that she did not come; now sickened before the sight of her; now again conscious that his fears were vain.
Auna caught up with her mother and he heard their voices. Then, in the gust of a great relief, he was confronted with his own position. The goats were now above him and in a few minutes Margery and his daughter would be at his elbow. Auna ready ran forward and it was too late to get away without being seen and recognised. He panted in agony, knowing what this must mean. Then he remembered that the presence of the child would at least create a respite. He turned and pretended to be examining the badger's burrow as Auna approached and saw him.
"Father!" she cried out, and then shouted to her mother. She ran into his arms, never stopping to wonder what had brought him here, and then Margery, who much wondered, joined them. She knew her husband's face exceeding well and with a sinking heart read the truth. Yet before she spoke, she strove to banish her conviction. A man might change his mind and many things were strange—even terrible—until one heard the explanation which banished both mystery and fear out of them. But Jacob was not a skilled liar and he had no art to invent any plausible excuse. Indeed he hardly tried, for he knew that his wife would understand. He said something about the badger, that had killed four hens and bitten their heads off a few days before, and declared that he had found its home; Auna was well satisfied and hoped the wicked badger would be punished for his crimes; while Margery fell in with the explanation, as long as the child was with them. Indeed she said nothing and, as Auna chattered and they rounded up the goats and brought them homeward, she asked herself what she should say. She was in no hurry. She saw clearly what had tempted Jacob to spy, and she knew that he must perceive the truth was not hidden from her. And yet she argued that, perhaps, he did not know that she knew. Margery asked herself which was the better of two courses open: to inquire, as though she had forgotten his mention of Adam Winter, what had really made her husband hide on the hill, or to challenge him and reveal that she perceived he had set a trap for her and fallen into it himself. She was silent through the candle-light hours of that evening, and still silent when Avis and Auna had gone to bed and she sat alone with her husband. There came a deep yearning for confidence, for some wise and sympathetic ear into which she might pour her tribulation. From pain she passed into anger presently, and anger determined her future action. She felt the sting of this cruelty and not guessing how opportunity had wakened Jacob's weakness, or that he had striven against a power beyond his strength to conquer, a natural indignation overwhelmed her. The futility and horror of such a life crowded down upon her soul; and it came with the more intensified forces because of late she had fancied an increase of frankness and understanding in Jacob. There had been no cloud for a long time and he had retreated less often into the obscurity and aloofness of speech and mind that told of hidden troubles. But this outrageous act destroyed hope and swept away any belief in an increasing security. All was thrown down and the man's deed revealed to her that still he could not trust; that he was even capable of telling her a falsehood in hope to catch her doing something he thought wrong. She asked herself how often he had already done this? She guessed that the watcher, whom she had hoped was gone for ever, still spied upon her; that this was not the first time he had played with her honour thus.
Therefore anger swept her and there came a quick determination to pay her husband in his own measure heaped up. How often had he imposed a barrier of silence between them; how often had she not heard his voice addressed to her for the space of a long day? Now she would be silent; but her silence was edged with a subtler sharpness than his. He would indeed be dumb, save before the children. She was not dumb. She, instead, assumed a cheerful manner and spoke as usual of many things, only leaving the one thing untouched that she knew was tormenting his mind. She made no allusion to it and when, alone with her, he braced himself to endure her reproaches and confess his fault with penitence, the opportunity was not granted. Then he felt driven to take the first step and abase his spirit before her; but he could not and, while he turned sleepless in bed beside her, and she pretended to sleep, their secret thoughts pursued them. He began to think she was wise to abandon the incident; he praised her in his heart; he suspected that silence meant an angelic forgiveness. And then he tried to convince himself that, perhaps, after all, the matter had not deeply interested Margery; that she had not linked his return with any evil purpose, or even remembered that he had told her Winter was in the valley. He often changed his mind, as Margery knew, and though she must have guessed that the badger was an excuse, yet his real object had possibly not occurred to her at all. He longed to believe this, but his reason laughed at him. He returned, therefore, to the conviction that, out of her charity, she had forgiven his weakness, and he felt it would be wisest to let time pass, that her wound might heal and no more pitiful fawnings and confessions be demanded from him.
He thought to wake her and show her that he understood her nobility; but she appeared to sleep so well that he did not disturb her. And she, meantime, wondered in whom she might confide. She considered her father, but believed that he lacked the comprehension to understand; neither could she go to old Marydrew, who had wit enough, but was Jacob's own nearest friend. Jeremy was too young. Then she determined to tell her mother.
Her resolution did not weaken with morning, and still Jacob could not find it in him to speak. The emotional conclusion of the previous night remained, while the emotion itself was gone. His customary reserve and love of silence woke with him, and it occurred to him that Margery might, after all, intend to speak in her own time. Therefore he kept silence. She only told him, however, that she was going into Brent, with Auna, to see her mother, who suffered from a cold and kept her bedroom; and after dinner on that day Margery set out with her younger daughter.
Bullstone walked to Shipley Bridge with them, then still farther, to the cottage of Billy Marydrew; and there he took leave of them and entered.
Margery proceeded, wondering curiously if Jacob shared her intense desire for the opinion of a third person, whether, indeed, he had not already poured his terrors into some other heart. A woman certainly never had won his troubles; he hardly knew half a dozen; but it might be that he confided in William Marydrew. She was silent as they tramped the leafless lanes to Brent, reached Aish upon the hillside, descended over Lydia Bridge to the town. Here she and Auna parted; her daughter went straight to the Huxams, and Margery turned into her brother's shop.
Jeremy stood behind the counter and revealed a gloomy mood. He was the father of two children now, and the second proved to be delicate.
Unaware of his depression, Margery praised the shop window and the general air of prosperity which her brother had created.
"It's wonderful how you've got on," she said; "a born shopkeeper, as mother always told us."
"Yes, that's true enough," he admitted, "but I'm afraid I'm reaching my tether here. Flesh and blood can only stand a certain amount, and to live with what you hate is a fearful strain. In fact to spend all my life in an odour of fruit and vegetables and never escape from it, is beginning to age me a good bit."
"What does the smell matter, if you're making and saving money?"
"It matters to my nerves," explained Jeremy. "I've reached a pitch of proper loathing now against the contents of this shop, and nothing but a sense of duty keeps me here. I've got to go on with it, I suppose, though at a cost none will ever know; but if people, who are supposed to care about me, only realised how I hate the very touch of fruit, they might combine and give a thought to the situation."
"What would you like to sell?" she asked.
"Nothing you can eat," answered Jeremy. "I'll never handle food again if I once escape this heavy cross. I'd sooner live my life among coal-scuttles and dust-bins than with food—especially fruit and vegetables. Never again in my born days shall I touch a fruit. If I could go into dry goods to-morrow, there's no doubt I should thank God; so would Jane for my sake. However, while the business sticks to me, no doubt I shall be expected to stick to it—sickening though it is."
"A pity you didn't go into mother's haberdashery."
"A very great pity," answered her brother. "When the assistant was away, you'll remember I did lend mother a hand, while Jane looked after this show; and the relief—to move among materials and refined things, like gloves and ties and so on, and everything clean and scentless! However, life's life; I must bite on the bullet and endure as long as my nature will let me."
"I'm afraid that won't be long," she answered, "for once you get out of heart about a thing, it's soon 'good-bye.'"
"I had it in my mind to ask Jacob for some advice," replied Jeremy. "I've got a very great respect for his judgment as you know, and though I'd not care to put myself under an obligation to many men, I wouldn't object at all in his case. He did me one very good turn, and though, as a huckster, I failed in the long run, if he had some other equally brilliant idea up his sleeve, it might be just the one thing my nature craves."
Margery threw out not much hope, but promised to speak to Jacob.
"I'm sure he'd help you, or any of us, if he could. His one pleasure in life is helping people. All the same he won't be able to understand your point of view this time."
"Not only point of view, but smell and touch," explained Jeremy. "Let him ask himself what he'd feel if his dogs were swept away and he had to live with nought but a parcel of cats. Then he'll see what I'm feeling. Tell him I want to get away from the fruits of the earth, and never wish to see one of them again; and I'd sacrifice a lot to do so, and so would Jane."
She left him then and proceeded to her mother's. She felt disturbed that Jeremy should have failed once more. But she smiled to hear him talk of 'biting on the bullet.'
"I know what that means better than ever he will," thought she.
Then Margery reflected concerning her own purpose, and, having already determined to speak to her mother, now asked herself what she should say. When it became a question of spoken words the difficulty appeared, for she was no longer in the temper to experiment with any words at all. Her mood had changed from anger to melancholy; she weighed her proposed speech and doubted whether, after all, Mrs. Huxam had better hear it. Something suddenly and forcibly told her that her mother would not be vague or neutral in such a matter. To confess to Judith would certainly entail following her mother's subsequent directions, and Margery much doubted what they might be. She was still divided in mind when she joined Mrs. Huxam.
The elder sat by a fire in her bedroom, with a shawl wrapped round her head. From its whiteness her face peered, also pale. Her eyes were heavy and her breathing disordered, but she was wide awake listening to Auna, who read the Bible and laboured diligently for her grandmother with the Second Book of Kings.
"'And Jehoash did that which was right in the sight of the Lord all his days——'" piped Auna; then she broke off and beamed.
"Oh, granny, isn't it a blessing to find somebody who did right before the Lord—for a change?"
"It is," croaked the old woman. "Few ever did and few ever will."
Auna, liberated from her record of faulty monarchs, left Margery with Mrs. Huxam and joined a young woman who operated in the post-office below.
"It's on your chest, I'm afraid," said Judith's daughter.
"I'm better, however. I shall be down house in a couple of days."
"Take care of the draughts then. February's always your bad month."
"No month is worse than another if you trust the Almighty," answered Mrs. Huxam. "How's your husband?"
"Jacob's all right."
"No, he isn't all right, and he never will be while he holds off his Sunday duty. With them who keep live animals, Sunday has got to be broke in a manner of speaking; but he ought not to let the dogs come between him and public worship, and well he knows it."
"It isn't the dogs. He hates a crowd," said Margery.
"Then he's all too like to spend eternity in one. Yes, Margery, I wish very much indeed I could feel more content about Bullstone's future."
In the light of these serious words, Jacob's wife felt little disposed to set out of her own sorrows. Indeed they were forgotten, since her instinct was instantly to respond to the challenge.
"He's always doing good things."
"So you may think, and so may he think; but if your Light is uncertain, what looks good may be in truth be bad. There's a lot done that shallow minds applaud for virtue, when the truth is the motive is wrong and the deed worthless, if not evil. And be that as it may, we well know that works without faith are of no account."
Margery changed the subject, yet introduced another that could not but redound to her husband's credit.
"The foundations of the house are dug I hear, mother."
"They are. The villa residence will begin to come into a fact as soon as we can trust the weather. We shall want your help in the garden, for we don't know anything about flowers."
"I shall dearly like to help. I long to see you really resting at last."
"I am content to let it be as it will, knowing that what happens is right. I wonder sometimes what the Lord will find for my hands to do when we retire; because, though we speak of retiring, that's no word for a Christian mouth really. The Christian never retires."
"No, you'll never retire from doing good and helping the people to do good—I'm sure of that. Has Jeremy told you of his troubles?"
"Me first, of course. I'm weighing them. I've laid them before the Throne. With Jeremy one has to remember that he was made, by his Creator's wish and will, a little different from everyday men. He's got great gifts, and though one could wish he'd been a Pulleyblank, even to wish it is wrong. When he was here for a bit, while Miss Mason went into a nursing home, Jeremy delighted me. He belongs to the old generation of shop people and has got the touch—hands like a woman and a great power of letting a customer think he's having his own way, when in reality he is not."
"He hates the green stuff and fruit."
"He feels that he was intended for higher lines."
"I'm going to ask Jacob about him. Jacob would like to pleasure him again if he could."
"I hope so, I'm sure, Jeremy being your brother and my son. But I've got my ideas in that matter. Now you'd best to go home. The dark's coming down and I've talked enough."
"Would you like some of our goats' milk? It's wonderful rich in cream. It's often done me good."
"Yes," said Mrs. Huxam. "I should like some of your goats' milk, if you can spare it."
Margery and Auna set out for home, the child richer by a shilling from her grandfather.
"I cheered him up about grandmother," she said, "because if she was very ill, she wouldn't have been so interested in the Kings of Israel, would she?"
Her mother speculated with amusement on Mrs. Huxam's view of Jeremy's character, and thought how Judith must have regarded such a spirit in another man. She was in a good temper and glad that she had not grumbled. Her nature was built to bend before the blast and she was always quick to react to any improvement in her circumstances. She considered, whether, after all, it might not be better to speak of the recent past to Jacob himself, and resolved that she would be guided by his future attitude. If he remained under the cloud, she would endeavour to dispel it; but she trusted that in a few days he might emerge.
They brought good news, for Auna now produced in triumph a telegram which Barlow Huxam himself had taken off the wires and entrusted to her, while Margery was with her mother. The child had not told Margery, but now produced the treasure for her father.
The Red House terriers had taken two first prizes. Auna begged to be allowed to keep the telegram and add it to her treasures.
"It will be the greatest of all," she said, "and it's signed 'Peter,' so it must be true."
Bullstone's monument of madness was nearly completed.
One day he met Adam Winter talking to Margery and Avis, as he returned from Owley Farm to dinner, and anon, in the kennels, Avis asked the meaning of words that Mr. Winter had spoken to her mother.
"He said some people have to take their pleasure like a dog snatches a bone—with an eye on the whip—father. What's that signify?"
"Who was he speaking about?"
"I don't know. He said it to mother, and she laughed and told him that pleasure took that way would be half pain."
"It means—it means—nothing at all. Just a way of speaking. Hungry dogs will steal bones—and whips will find 'em, soon or late. And all pleasure's half pain when you grow up. The thing is to be young, like you, Avis. Then pleasure's real I hope."
"Would you like for me to marry Bob Elvin, father?"
"Would you like to?"
"He asked me last Sunday going to chapel, and I said I would; and he's coming next Sunday to beg we may be tokened."
An idea so great had occupied Jacob's mind fully enough at another moment. But now there was no room for it.
"I knew he was going to, yet didn't think he'd have the cheek for another year."
"I love him with all my heart, and grandmother thinks he's a very good, proper-minded young man. She's agreeable; but she says it mustn't be for a full year, till I'm over eighteen."
"Quite right. I'll talk to Master Bob next Sunday."
"Are you vexed, or pleased about it?"
"Why, I'm both, my dear. Vexed to think how the time flies—vexed in a sort of way to find you're wife-old. Yet that's foolishness, isn't it? And pleased that you've fallen in love with an honest, hard-working man."
"You won't dress him down, or say he's looked above him, or anything like that?"
"I don't know what I'll say. Certainly not that. Run in now. You've given me something to think about."
"Mother likes Bob very much indeed."
"I don't know anybody that hasn't a good word for him."
"And I'm well thought upon too, father."
"Why not, Avis; why not?"
"Nothing can ever come between me and Bob," she said, then left him, and he forgot her instantly.
His thoughts drifted through the familiar channels and he read pregnant and personal things into Winter's jest. He began at the old starting point, strove to bring a judicial mind to bear upon the question, asked himself, for the thousandth time, if he had ever found a cause to suspect any man but this man, or associate with Margery the name of another. He remembered that with some exceptions, now faint in vanished years, he had never done so. Once or twice during their early married days, a dog-fancier had spoken to Margery in words too free and easy for his taste; but no man remained in their united lives save Winter. His wife was not a woman who particularly enjoyed male society, or strove to challenge the other sex. So far as he knew, her acquaintance did not number a dozen men of her own generation.
To this fact he always returned, and it increased rather than abated his tribulation. He told himself, falsely, that had she appreciated male society and been at her best and happiest in it, innocence would be far easier to assume; he assured himself that he would not have minded that. But there was only one who could not be shut out of her life and who, despite handsome inducement to do so, would not go out of it.
The words overheard by Avis might mean much; and even more importance he attached to Margery's answer. A woman who was doing wrong with her eyes open, and suffering accordingly, was just the woman to have replied so.
He worked himself into a fever and fell upon days of gloom darker than the weather.
Accidents contrived to throw Shipley Farm much into his thoughts, for illness fell upon it. An epidemic that was filling half the homes of Brent with sickness reached the vale, and first Amelia was stricken down, then her younger nephew. Both were seriously ill for a time and the old woman's life became endangered. The parish nurse was too fully occupied to assist them, and since neither could be moved, it became a needful charity that their neighbours lent necessary aid. Samuel Winter tended his brother, while a cousin—one of the nurses from the Asylum not far distant—obtained leave to wait on Amelia. The old woman survived, but was kept in her chamber for some weeks. Then the nurse left again and Avis and Auna were glad to be of daily service. Adam also began to recover. Margery, however, so far as her husband knew, had not visited Shipley Farm during the progress of this misfortune. He neither forbade her to do so, nor commented on the fact that she kept away, though, according to his custom, he weighed its significance and now felt glad and now read more into it than appeared.
Of late he had sometimes struggled from his torment by the road of preoccupation, and striven to busy himself for other people. Opportunity did not lack, for the winter was long and hard, and there came a day when, out of good-will alone, he set off to visit an old man—a friend of his dead father—who lived at Totnes and was reported in the extremity of need. Only the workhouse waited for him, nor did Bullstone know any means to avert this doom, since the ancient soul lived on after the world could offer no other place for him; but Jacob departed to inquire if anything might be done, and it was understood that he would stop at Brent on returning from Totnes, sup with his father-in-law, who desired to speak with him, and return at a late hour to Red House.
The day was overclouded from the north and snow promised to fall ere long. Those who best understood the signs prophesied a stern spell, for frost had hardened the ground and the temperature kept very low. At noon the sun sometimes moistened the ice and thawed a little of the mud; then the frost returned as the light failed. Fruit-growers welcomed the cold to hold back bud; but farmers, now beginning to expect their lambs, desired it not. As for Jacob, the weather braced him physically. He set off, took train to Totnes and presently found himself anticipated. The old man whom he had gone to cheer was stricken with illness and already comatose. He did not recognise Bullstone, and his visitor, glad rather than sorry that death had come to the rescue, retraced his way, being informed that money could not add to the dying man's comfort, or prolong his life.
Having heard that oranges were a valuable fruit against the epidemic, he thought to take a dozen home and leave them at Shipley Farm. He debated this problem in the train on the way back to Brent, and argued long with himself as to the propriety of such a step. He found himself uncertain, yet the idea had thrust into his mind and he hesitated to dismiss it. He regretted having thought of it; then he grew impatient with himself and determined to follow the impulse. He told himself that, whatever value might be set upon his gift, his motive was one of pure kindness. Then he pictured Winter receiving the oranges and perhaps laughing in secret as he accepted them. Once more he determined not to take them; but pursued the subject, in his laborious fashion that ever magnified trifles, and again decided that he would do so. It was typical of his mind, at this season, that already it began to lose sense of proportion; and while he exaggerated every incident involving the inhabitants of Shipley Farm, upon other far more momentous matters, he decided instantly and not seldom more swiftly than sound judgment had warranted. He was impetuous when he might reasonably delay, and where no question really existed and the problem's solution mattered nothing, he would fret and exhaust himself.
On reaching Brent he entered the shop of Jeremy Huxam to make his purchase. Jane was serving, but called Jeremy as his brother-in-law appeared. Then she put the oranges into a bag, took the money for them and left her husband with Jacob.
"I haven't forgot you are wishful to drop this," said the elder; "but shops are not in my line as you know, and it's a pity, if you ask me, that you can't stomach this work, especially as you've done so well at it."
"I'm not going to throw up the sponge, be sure," promised Jeremy. "I shall fight on till the right occupation offers. But, if the inner nature turns and the gorge rises, then you may be sure you're not doing the work you were planned to do. However, I shall come to it. I always trust the future and I always trust my fellow-man. I've been a square peg in a round hole all my life, Jacob; but after such an apprenticeship, I feel tolerable sure that the next billet will be the chosen one. Jane and I have shone through a fog ever since we have been married you may say; but fog or not, we have shown our light and done our best, and my mother is as certain as I am myself that my gifts are only kept back."