"Haberdashery you're craving for, so Margery tells me."
"My natural bent I believe to be there," admitted Jeremy.
"Then look ahead and keep your mouth shut," advised his brother-in-law, who could see farther into the fortunes of other men than his own.
"Stop where you are," he continued, "and leave the future to time. I should have thought you could see that the big chance is coming for yourself without any help."
"You're a deep one," murmured Jeremy, "and what you see was also seen by another good friend—the best I've got in the world. I mean Jane, of course. She hinted in secret that when father and mother retire, it would be in the course of nature for me to go to the post-office and take on the shop. But they haven't mentioned it and I'm far too delicate minded to do so. Not that I couldn't rise to the post-office as well as the business—I could; but I mustn't touch such a great subject yet."
"You needn't touch it. But stop whining over the smell of green stuff, and keep a stiff upper lip, and show yourself a good man of business and keen and capable at figures and so on. Then your parents will come to see for themselves you can fill their shoes presently, and very likely invite you to get well into the saddle with their help before they go. Jane's trustworthy and clever, and you're the prime favourite with your mother. She's a human being where you're concerned, and you know you'll win her right enough. And your father would far sooner pass the business over to you, and keep his hand on it, than sell."
Jeremy brightened.
"He would, because then his occupation wouldn't be exactly gone, would it? He'd look after me, and it would take a considerable amount of his time, I dare say."
Then he praised Jacob.
"You've got a business head without a doubt," he declared. "It's a great thing to have an eye that pierces the future like yours. I have the habit of looking ahead also, but my future's never too clear to me. However, I've got undying hope. I beat you there. And if the chance offers with father some day, you might sound him—just in a vague and delicate way. It's high politics and I wouldn't trust myself, nor yet Jane, to breathe it. But it might very well come from you, I dare say. See what Margery thinks; I know my good's hers."
Bullstone restrained a contempt for his brother-in-law, which he had always found compatible with good-natured regard, and promised to hold the matter in mind.
"I'm supping with them to-night by appointment," he said, "and I'll get over there now, for the governor wants to see me; but I shan't mention these high matters yet a while; and meantime you put a good face on your oranges and lemons and show yourself a little sharper at pounds, shillings and pence."
Then he took his bag of fruit and went his way. Dusk had come down and only a golden eye or two from some small shop window shot the gloaming. It was nearly dark at six o'clock, and though no flake had fallen, the air already to Jacob's nose seemed to smell of snow.
Mr. Huxam was out when he reached the post-office and from a remark that related to the far past, Jacob plunged into deep waters. His mood was amiable, but, as often happened with his mother-in-law, from whom the passing years separated him more and more widely in opinion, conversation tended to exasperate him and run him into extremes of statement he would not have uttered in a calm moment.
On this occasion, he had himself to thank and, looking back afterwards, perceived the tremendous significance of that encounter.
There had died a man concerning whom few good things could be said. Marsden Blake, a landowner of wealth and position, who succeeded his father as lord of Brent manor, had been killed while shooting big game in Africa.
For the Huxams the tragedy possessed some interest, since it was this man whom their eldest son had died to save nearly twenty years ago. As a boy he had stopped Blake's runaway horse and preserved the young man's life together with his companion's; but he had lost his own in so doing.
Jacob reminded Judith of the fact and how she had told him that Providence had permitted the death of Thomas Huxam for a good end, destined some day to appear.
"What d'you think of that matter now?" he asked. "Are you going to say that Blake wouldn't have been better dead and your son better living? What's Blake's record? A wife that died of a broken heart, a wasted estate, gambling, wrong-doing and now dead—smashed to rags and bones by a rhinoceros on the Zambesi."
"Yes, and what's my son's record? What do you suppose he's been doing these twenty years? Better work—far better work than even he could have done on earth. He went, because he was ripe to go; and as for the other, he had his chance, as the worst have, but his end was preordained. If there'd been good hidden under his evil, then, when a young saint died to save him, he would have seen the Light, like Paul, and understood his Maker's mercy and turned to the Cross. But he was lost from the womb, and the one good thing you can say about him is this: that the Lord used him as a tool in the matter of Thomas—not Thomas in the matter of him as I thought at the time."
"A funny tool—a drunken, dissolute sweep like that to blot out your fine boy."
"God uses strange weapons—strange in our eyes, yet always perfect for His purpose."
History repeats itself and Jacob answered in a phrase of Xenophanes, though of that sage he had certainly never heard. But thoughts of men echo and re-echo down the centuries, as conditions are iterated by the reverberation of history.
"Doubt is extending over everything," he said, "and you stand for a sort of faith we seldom see, mother. In my young days we spoke with a good deal more certainty than our children do; but all institutions are weaker than of old. The Law's weaker, the Church is weaker, faith is weaker. There's a spirit abroad to run black into white and turn everything grey. Bad men ain't hung like they used to be, but wrangled over and often let off for false pity; sermons ain't preached like I used to hear. Everything's toned down and softened, and modern parsons will go through their discourse without daring to name hell."
"How d'you know that, since you never go to church?" asked Mrs. Huxam.
"My neighbours tell me. I hear about the changes from my friend, William Marydrew,—a great church-goer and very keen in his intellects, for all his years. He says that in the old days the clergy used to thunder and flash the Word down, like lightning, on the people; but now they argue and palter and mark time, so that folk go out of church as doubtful as when they went in. It's all education, and men's brains getting larger and their sense of justice increasing."
"Don't you think it," answered Judith. "Their brains will land mankind in the madhouse at the rate we're going in some directions. Are right and wrong other than right and wrong because godless men; for their own base ends, try to mix 'em?"
"I don't know; but I do know that a good deal of the world's work is standing still thanks to education. Labour has got such a lot to talk about nowadays, that it spends half its time chattering; and the money is always the subject nowadays, never the work that's supposed to earn it."
"Weak faith is the sin at the back of all our troubles; and the world's pretty ripe for the avenging Hand so far as the faithful can see," she answered.
"I don't believe that. Laws are made for the living, not the dead. We labour too much under—not the avenging Hand, but the dead Hand. Everything changes, including our standards of faith and duty. I heard a chap say last week—a sober, decent man too—that life was quite difficult enough without being handicapped by the Ten Commandments. Of course he was joking, but you see the point."
Mrs. Huxam did not see the point. She retorted sternly and told Jacob that he was little better than an atheist to question the enduring quality of inspiration.
"It's all of a piece," she continued. "Man is losing sight of his Maker at every turn in the road. We talk of Anti-Christ and don't see that Anti-Christ is already among us, netting souls by the hundred thousand. The abiding consciousness of the Divine Presence is lost—gone. This generation hardly knows the meaning of the words. And what follows? The men and women are false in wedlock, false in fatherhood and motherhood, false in business and false in faith. There are new, sham gods being lifted up, and you—you, my daughter's husband—are worshipping 'em with the rest. You pretend it isn't so; but your words condemn you."
Jacob laughed, for he had thought long upon these things and slipped farther from his old guides than Mrs. Huxam knew.
"'Consciousness of the Divine Presence' a guarantee for honesty in business!" he answered. "Why, my dear woman, it isn't even a guarantee for honesty in the pulpit! How many of the parsons are honest, or dare to say what they know is the truth? And we laymen—look round. Take Ireland—two camps of men fighting like devils, with 'consciousness of the Divine Presence' the bedrock of all their quarrels. And our so-called Christian Government—what would become of that, if, for one sitting of Parliament, it put 'the Divine Presence' before practical politics and diplomacy? No, no; 'consciousness of the Divine Presence' don't make men honest, I assure you, mother—not even such as say they believe in it."
She glared at him and turned very white.
"God help your wife and children then," she said. "If I had known you hid such poison as this in you, I'd sooner have seen Margery in her coffin than——"
Barlow Huxam came in and his wife left her sentence unfinished.
"We've all got a right to our opinions. Our conduct, not our words, will judge us, mother."
"Another lie," she answered, and rose and left them.
Jacob expressed regrets and hoped that Barlow would make his peace.
"I let my tongue run," he confessed, "but I didn't mean to vex her."
Mr. Huxam, however, when he heard particulars, took rather a serious view of the controversy.
"I'm sorry you touched religion," he declared, "because on that subject Judy's—however, I'll explain you were not in earnest and are properly contrite. But don't you put loose opinions into your children, because, if she caught a doubtful word in their mouths, there'd be a flare-up and harm done beyond mending."
"Their mother teaches them, not me. Auna's the only one who sets any value on me," answered Jacob.
Mr. Huxam brought out the plans of the villa residence.
"I'm wishful for you to see the creation of the house," he said. "Young Tremayne, of Exeter, drew it and I think well of it. I was hoping that you'd persuade Judy about the bath-room; but your light's out with her to-night I'm afraid. She says the Pulleyblanks, and the Twelve Apostles, and a lot more celebrated people never had a bath-room, and therefore it's a vanity and vexation. But I argue that such an invention stands well inside Christianity, for there's no word against cleaning yourself in style and comfort. The world won't stand still."
"That's what your wife is so angry about," answered Jacob. "She thinks that if your faith is sound, you ought to stand still, no matter what cry goes up to get a move on and take the iron hand of worn-out uses off the people. We rot under festering laws that the Church won't lift, for faith, and the State won't touch, for dirty policy. You stand out for your bath-room."
"It's part of every modern villa residence and must go in I reckon; though whether I shall have the pluck to use it, time will show. Judy would expect me to be struck dead by lightning—still the opportunity may come, and the younger generation will prove there's no danger. That's one thing education have done anyway—the people wash a lot more than in my youth; but Judy always says it's too fatal easy to cleanse the outside of the platter."
Bullstone praised the plans of the house and looked forward to visiting the site at a later date.
"There'll be no building for a minute," he said, "for we're in for a real pinch of winter. However, I'm never feared of February cold."
"The snow has begun," answered Barlow.
"Then I'll get home and not sup with you—for that reason and another. I mustn't anger Mrs. Huxam any more to-day. Better you tell her I've gone home, with my tail between my legs; but hope to make my peace next time we meet."
"That's wisest," admitted his father-in-law. "I'll say. you're terrible chap fallen and didn't mean a word of it—just some nonsense you heard in the train—eh? All well at Red House?"
"All well, and my father's old friend at Totnes is fast going home—didn't know me."
"All well with him then."
Jacob left the post-office without seeing his mother-in-law again. He did not much regret hurting her, for he felt that her attitude to life was obsolete, and he had no wish that his children should grow up self-righteous and bigoted. He was in a good temper when he set out and saw flakes of snow drift past the oil lamps that lit the township. They fell fitfully as yet, but grew thicker as he climbed the hill and set his face northerly for home. He was comfortable and warm, for he had drunk before leaving Brent. His old teetotal habit had been of late years abandoned and he took spirits after his day's work. The night was very dark and he felt glad to have escaped supper at Brent. The Red House supper was taken about nine o'clock, and he would now be home before that hour. At Shipley he turned into the farm gate, where a powder of snow already whitened the earth. No light shone from the ground floor of the farmhouse, but a dull red glow outlined one bedroom window, while the others remained in darkness. The door was closed, but knowing that Miss Winter still kept her room and slept much, Jacob did not knock. Instead he lifted the latch quietly and entered the kitchen, which opened down a passage-way behind the parlour. The place was empty. A candle burned low on the table and beside it stood a jelly in a pudding basin. A peat fire was sinking on the hearth. Bullstone set down his oranges, and proceeded to leave as quietly as he had come. He was already in the stone-paved passage at the foot of a little stair, when voices from above arrested him. He heard his wife and Adam Winter. Each spoke once, and in the silence he marked every syllable.
"Quick—quick—there's a dear," exclaimed the woman.
"Come, then—come," said the man.
Then he heard Margery laugh.
Within five seconds the thing had happened, and for another five he stood without moving, without breathing. Then he turned to rush up the stairs; but he did not. There was no need for that. In another five seconds he had left the house, closing the door behind him. It was over—the long-drawn agony had ended and he stood justified in all his woes. At last the truth stared at him without one shadow to make doubtful its hideous face. He leapt to accept it. An indefinite relief settled upon him as he went panting home, for he could now make peace with his own soul. Already he had planned the future. He was amazed to find how his mind worked. He marshalled his thoughts coherently and vividly. He swept over many subjects—the children, their future, the new order of events at Red House, when his wife was gone and the place emptied of her for ever. Then only would his own heart and conscience become pure again and the muddy currents of life run clear. The dominant emotion at this moment was one of thankfulness that he had been right, for the possibility that he could still be wrong had ceased to exist and immeasurable relief attended its departure.
The children were surprised to see him and when he asked Auna for her mother, the child said that she had gone to Shipley with something for Miss Winter. He ascended to his room, to change his coat and looked at his watch. It was nine o'clock, and at ten minutes past nine, Margery returned with her shawl over her head.
She was flushed and panting.
"I've had such a run in the snow," he heard her say to Avis.
And the girl answered:
"Father's home."
She came to him then, at the table, sharpening the carving knife on the steel before he cut a piece of cold pork.
"My, Jacob! Back to supper? Nothing's amiss? I've been to Shipley with a bowl of nice stock for Miss Winter. She don't pick up. It's her age against her."
He did not answer, and Margery took her place at the bottom of the table. Her husband preserved silence, nor did he reply to Barton Gill, when the old man spoke.
The children lowered their voices and looked sideways at him. Margery, who had come straight home and not returned in to the Shipley house-place, was ignorant that he had been there and left the oranges upon the table. She, too, fell very quiet and knew that she had gravely angered him by going to the Winters. She doubted not that he had set another trap for her; and this time he would think that he had caught her. She was not frightened but sorry. She had her emotion, however, ignored Jacob and talked to the others. Then, the meal ended, Bullstone left the kitchen and ascended to the little room in the upper floor, where he kept his papers and books. He did not reappear until Avis, Auna and Peter had gone to bed. Gill, who slept over the kennels, had already retired. Then he came back into the kitchen to get a day book.
"Wait, wait, Jacob," begged Margery. "Do, my dear man, keep your anger for me and not frighten the children with it. Auna's gone crying to bed and the others are cowed and full of fear. It's too bad. What have I done, after all? Visited a sick old woman with a basin of jelly. Is that enough to——?"
"No more," he said slowly. "I know what you've done—what you've done often enough before. It's ended now. All's over between us and I'm not going to talk; I'm going to act. And may the Almighty in Heaven strike me dumb where I stand, if you shall ever hear my voice again after this hour. I could kill you and I could kill him—I could have killed you together just now. But there's others to think about. My children are mine, so I believe."
"What are you saying?" she cried.
"You've heard my voice for the last time," he answered and left her.
He locked the front door; then he went up to his workroom and the place was silent. Only the house crickets chirruped and the fire rustled. Margery sat for an hour looking straight before her. What did he suppose had happened? What was he going to do? What could he do? Something awful had overtaken him; some evil things had come to his ears. It was impossible that her trivial act behind his back could have awakened passion so deep as this. She had not hidden the visit to Shipley. The children knew where she had gone and might have told him if she had not. His awful threats terrified her. He had said all was over between them and that she should never hear his voice again. He had accused her of adultery and declared that he might have killed her. She was very frightened now and feared for his reason. She blamed herself bitterly for going to Shipley and vowed never to err again. In this mood she persisted for some time, then it passed and she banished the fear that he was mad and grew angry at his insufferable insults. She pictured life without him, and without the eternal threat that sulked in his eyes. Then she considered her children and his. She flamed with fierce indignation at his allusion to them. 'My children are mine, so I believe.' And he had sworn before God that these should be the last words he would ever speak to her. But from anger she quickly returned to terror. He must be mad thus to attack her, and she, no doubt, had innocently helped to drive him mad. Her soul sickened at the thought of the long hours yet to pass before the morning. She fell into tears and abandoned herself to a frenzy of weeping.
He made no sign and presently she dried her face and determined to approach him. If he was mad, then it became her to treat him as a sick man, forget her own suffering and do all in her power to soothe his temper. It was past twelve o 'clock when she went upstairs and saw a light under the door of his little room. She nerved herself to enter and turned the handle of the door; but it was locked.
She spoke low—not to wake the children who slept close at hand:
"Jacob—forgive me. I'm cruel sorry. Hear me—only hear me—there's a dear."
And he, sitting writing within, listened to the last three coaxing words as though they had been red-hot stabs through his head. For they were an echo.
He did not reply, and a hideous fear touched Margery that he might have destroyed himself—that that was his meaning, when he said she should never hear his voice again.
"For Christ's sake, Jacob——"
But there came no response and she went down again to the kitchen. The iron of the stove was giving fitful sounds that told of cooling; the fire had sunk. She looked out, to see that the snow had ceased to fall and stars shone through thin clouds. The crickets had left off chirruping and night hung dead and heavy. She huddled up in front of the fire and her terror increased. Then that happened to lessen it. She heard her husband push back his chair and move.
Once more, an hour later, she ascended, knocked at his door and spoke to him; but he did not reply.
"May I be judged by my fellow-creatures and condemned if I have ever done you wrong in word or thought or deed, Jacob," she said at last. Still he made no answer and she went downstairs again. He had heard and reflected how soon that would happen she professed to desire. Her fellow-creatures should judge between them quickly enough.
At two o'clock she put out the lamp, lighted a candle and went to her bedroom. She crept up very quietly, so that he should not hear her; but listened again at his door. He was breathing heavily and muttering in his dreams. She had heard his voice again; but it sounded strange and far off, touched to an unfamiliar tone, as sleeping voices are.
She put out her candle and looked in upon her children. Avis and Auna were both in deep slumber. They had pulled up their blind, as they were wont to do and put out a saucer of milk and jam, to freeze and make a dainty for the morning. Peter's room was on the other side of the passage. He, too, slept soundly with a book beside him. She entered her own room shivering with the cold and feeling physically hungry. But she did not descend again. She went to bed and shivered still, missing the great, sanguine body that was wont to keep her slight figure warm.
Again she cried till her pillow was wet and cold, and she longed that when she slept she might never wake again.
Dawn was grey and the hour for rising had come before she grew unconscious.
That night, while Margery had sat below and from time to time strove to reach him, Jacob Bullstone occupied many hours with writing. He had set down the web of testimony woven over many years—the long horror of suspicion, now culminated in proof irrefragable. Scene by scene, incident by incident, his remorseless memory gathered every thread of the pitiful fabric. It seemed that a stage was lighted within his brain, whereon act succeeded after act of his married life. It did not surprise him that the narrative presented itself in such orderly sequence, for all had long been printed upon the pages of his mind, and, looking back, one fact alone astonished him: that he should have patiently endured his dishonour until the final climax. From his own standpoint, the account, as he set it down, appeared lucid and trustworthy. A stranger, reading it without bias or other knowledge, had been convinced of its reality. By a thousand touches truth seemed to stand confessed. That another story as good, in contravention of Bullstone's statement, could be created out of the same material he did not imagine. Jacob wrote quite calmly, only holding his pen when his wife came, to break the silence with entreaty. Then after she had gone he proceeded, and not until the work was done did nature demand rest. He fell asleep, indeed, a few moments after he had ceased to write. The compilation acted like an anodyne; the mechanical work of setting all down calmed him; and at the finish he lay back in his chair and slumbered heavily.
At dawn he awoke, and about the hour when Margery began to sleep, he rose, made a packet of his papers, put on his coat and boots and went downstairs. It was too early to pursue his purpose, but he would not loiter and, as the maid appeared to open the house and light the fire, Jacob set out for Brent, leaving no message behind him. Not much snow had fallen and the sky was white and clear.
He began to collect his thoughts and found that they persistently ran on into the future, after what he now planned to do should be done. He was busy thus when an incident brought him back to the present and loosened passion.
Adam Winter was astir, sweeping the snow away from his outer gate. He saw Bullstone, flung down his broom and came out to intercept him.
His smiling face sent the blood through the other's head and Jacob trembled with rage as the smaller man came to him.
"Got to thank you for thicky, brave fruit last night I expect. Like you to leave it and——"
The other roared:
"It's over—it's done, you God damned scoundrel—all's done—all's known!"
Adam stared, and then a heavy fist smashed into his face and Jacob's other hand was swung to the side of his head.
He reeled; his hat flew off; half blind and groping, with his arms thrust before him, he fell. He lifted himself to his knees, but dropped again, giddy and scarcely conscious. He supposed that he confronted a madman, for there existed no shadow of meaning to him in this assault. He had once or twice seen his brother suffer from like paroxysms.
"Man, man, that's bad," he said gently, with one hand to his head, the other supporting him. "That's a wicked thing to do, master, and you'll be sorry for it."
Bullstone was gone. His fury sped him on his way, and not until he had breasted a hill did he slow down and his mind grow calmer. For some time he rejoiced at what he had done; then he began to be sorry for it. Often enough he had been tempted to physical violence against Winter; once or twice he had felt a gathering lust to do violence to Margery; but he had escaped the peril until this moment. Now ill chance had thrust his enemy upon him at an hour when self-control was impossible. As the sun rose he mourned his act, not for itself, but because it was a mean thing to smite a man just recovered from sickness—a blot on the large, inexorable plan now waiting accomplishment. He had succumbed to Nature, after successfully fighting her for so long. That any fellow-creature would blame him—that any husband would have thought the worse of him for killing Winter with his hands—he did not for a moment imagine; but his act stood out of harmony with the long story of his patience and restraint. It was beneath his character and reputation. He remembered an ancestor who had taken the law into his own hands and destroyed both the man and wife who dishonoured him. That was a deed orbicular, complete and tremendous; but he dreamed of no such course. He had sunk from his own high standards and regretted it.
Then he dismissed Winter and returned again to all that was going to happen when the Law had freed him. He meant to divorce his wife and begin a new existence; but he did not mean that the end of his days should be ruined and his destiny changed by tribulation forced upon him from without. He held himself guiltless and stainless. He was only one of many honest men who had been called to endure like indignity and disaster; but the sympathy of mankind would lie with him; and his own steadfast nature and large patience might be counted to gather up the ravelled texture of his life and carry on the old design in a manner worthy of him and his family.
So he argued and, keeping those who had wronged him out of his thoughts, reflected upon his children. They must not suffer for the loss of a wicked mother. Nor did he fear it. They were old enough to understand and would appreciate the situation. John Henry was already established on land presently to be his own. Peter would stay at Red House and gradually assume command; for Red House and the business some day must fall to his portion. Avis would marry in a year or two and go to Owley Farm. There remained Auna, and for Auna he felt no fear. She was his own, his nearest and dearest—all that he would soon have left. She would never leave him until the breath was out of his body. The future stretched stark and clean. He must suffer, and he began to realise how deeply; but the intermittent pangs of the future would not corrode and sear as the torment of the past. He knew that he might struggle back to peace, given the time to do it, for with self-respect all things are possible, and he felt that he had already regained that.
He dwelt on details. When she was free of him, the other man would doubtless take her. Whither would he take her? They could not live at Shipley in sound of his voice. The excuses to stop at Shipley would not hold now. The woman would see to that and remove herself beyond reach, both of him and her own outraged family. He thought of Judith and Barlow Huxam and imagined their dismay.
And meantime, with the snow-blink on one side of their faces and the firelight on the other, Margery and her children sat at breakfast. She had heard from Barton Gill that Jacob was not in the kennels, and after putting off the questions of Avis and Peter for a time, something seemed to break in her heart. A sense of destruction mastered her and she began to cry. Her reserve and the caution, practised a thousand times to disarm the children's questions when Jacob would not speak, deserted her. She was indifferent and could no longer pretend anything after the events of the previous night. She was also physically exhausted and had no wits longer to parry the youthful attack. She told them that their father was very angry with her and had said that he never meant to speak to her again. And then she succumbed and wept helplessly before them.
Avis was awed and Peter angry.
"I hate father—I hate him!" he cried. "He's a bad man, and this isn't the first time he's made you miserable."
"John Henry will protect you, mother," said Avis. "And I'll hate father too, if he's cruel to you. And so will grandmother Huxam."
Auna put her arms round her mother's neck.
"Forgive him," she said. "You always make it up with us when we are naughty. Perhaps you was naughty, or said something he didn't understand."
"It's him says things we don't understand," declared Peter, "and mother's never naughty, and you ought to be ashamed to say it, Auna."
"We're often naughty without knowing it, Peter," explained Auna.
"Well, and if we are, how can we know we're naughty when nobody tells us?" asked Avis. "Father won't speak to mother, and how can you make it up if a person won't speak to you?"
"You can speak to them," said Auna.
Her mother was in the broken-spirited state when an adult will talk with children as equals.
"I did speak to him, Auna," she said. "I prayed him to listen and tell me what I'd done. But I'm never to hear him speak again."
"Then more won't I," declared Peter. "God's my judge, mother, if father don't say he's sorry for being such a beast, I'll run away from him."
"And so will I," added Avis. "And if I was you, I'd run away too, mother. Then where would he be?"
Auna, terrified at these words, crept out of the room and ran away to hide her own tears. Then Margery dried her eyes and controlled herself.
"Don't you pay no heed to the silly things I've said—either of you. It'll come right. And I won't have no hard words against father. A better father and a kinder and more generous, no children ever had. So never let me hear you say one word against him, for that I couldn't bear. He'll come home all right I expect; and don't let him see nothing but smiles when he does. And both forget I was such a silly mother as to cry about nothing. Where's Auna? I've frightened the child. Now you be off to the kennels, both of you, and sweep the snow away, and let's all be ashamed of ourselves."
Thus she sought to undo the mischief of her weakness, and partially succeeded; but her own moods swept her like a cross-sea, and when the interminable hours of the morning had passed, when noon came, and dinner time, and still Jacob did not return, she began to lose her nerve again.
She yearned for her mother, and the longing grew until at last, unable to endure more, she dressed for walking and slipped out of Red House unknown to the children. At every turn of the way to Brent she expected to meet Jacob; but he did not appear. He was coming back by Lydia Bridge and reached his home an hour after Margery had left it. He guessed that she had gone not to return, and was glad. He had spent the morning with his lawyer, a man older than himself, who expressed deep concern at hearing his opinions and prayed for patience and delay. Mr. Dawes had worked for Jacob's father before him and felt staggered by this most unexpected disaster. He read the record while Jacob sat and waited; then he argued for time, for reconsideration and explanations—at worst a separation for the family's sake. But he spoke to deaf ears and Jacob presently explained that he was there to direct and not receive advice. The lawyer's talk appeared worse than vain from his standpoint, for all was already accomplished and only the details remained. His evidence assured the sequel. The incredulity of Mr. Dawes made Bullstone impatient and the lawyer's lamentations he nipped in the bud. He left explicit directions to institute proceedings for divorce against his wife and cited Adam Winter as co-respondent. Once more Mr. Dawes protested at the absurdity of the situation. Against Adam no whisper had ever been heard. He enjoyed a reputation for plain-dealing and stood well among the Chosen Few.
But Jacob declined argument.
"I'm here to issue orders," he said, "and you're here to carry them out. If you won't, I can put my business into other hands."
Thus it was left and the solicitor, deeply concerned for both parties, read and re-read Jacob's statement, yet felt the issue to be in the highest degree doubtful. He could barely believe the truth of Bullstone's claims and he suspected that the other parties might well deny them and fight him. He perceived the horror of such a situation, and determined at any cost to change his client's mind, if it were possible to do so. He decided for the moment to brave Bullstone's anger and do nothing at all. He would at least give the man time to grow calm and consider the gravity of his intentions. As yet Jacob was far from calm; he stood too near the evidence of his own senses, and Mr. Dawes perceived that he was beyond reason for the moment. He left it and only hoped that Bullstone would not throw down his challenge, and so drive his wife from him for ever.
But this climax was reached before the end of that day.
At dusk Mr. and Mrs. Huxam drove up to Red House in a cab, asked to see Jacob and were shown into the parlour. They did not bring Margery, but came for an explanation of her husband's conduct.
Jacob was in the kennels when they arrived and quickly joined them. He brought in a lamp with him and set it on the table.
Barlow Huxam spoke as soon as the door was shut.
"Our daughter came to us this afternoon in a very poor way," he said. "It seems that last night you swore before her face never to let her hear your voice again. You kept your word to-day and went to Brent this morning and didn't return. She waited until far beyond forenoon and then came to us. If you can explain this in a manner to satisfy me and my wife, I'll be glad, because on the face of it, it looks as if you'd took leave of your senses, Jacob."
"I've taken leave of my honour, that's all," answered Bullstone. "Or it would be truer to say that my honour has been stolen from me by my wife. You understand what I mean no doubt. I've got proof positive and shall act accordingly. I'm sorry for you too."
"Good God! You stand there and dare to say and think that Margery's not faithful to you?"
"Saying and thinking matter nothing now. I've said too little, Barlow Huxam, and I've thought too much. Now I know—I know. It's in my lawyer's hands—Mr. Dawes—and you'll hear from him, if you're going to stand for your daughter."
"Let's be clear," answered Huxam, who was now very angry. "Let's get to the bottom of this, before we see you for the last time I hope. What shall we hear from Mr. Dawes?"
"You'll hear that I'm going to divorce my wife for her adulteries—that's what you'll hear."
"You dare to stand there before me and tell that damnable lie. Margery! Margery! And you've lived with her for near twenty years and can think it! What filth are you made of? What poisonous, beastly stuff has got into you? Her—the clean, pure thing—with nought but honest blood in her veins and honest thoughts in her mind! Her—adultery—you're a madman!"
"You'd better go," answered Bullstone quietly. "If she doesn't own it, so much the worse. There's no defence for either of them. I'm not mad, though my Maker knows I've endured enough to make me. I want to hear nothing about her—or him. I want to be free, and I mean to be free."
Then Judith Huxam spoke. She had been sitting motionless while her husband walked up and down the room. She had turned very pale, when Jacob stated his determination, and she had put her hand up to her breast and kept it there. She was quite collected and showed no emotion.
"And who is the man, Jacob Bullstone?" she asked.
"Adam Winter is her paramour."
"That godly, steadfast creature!"
Barlow spoke and bade his wife rise and accompany him.
"We'll be gone. This must be answered by others than us," he said.
But Mrs. Huxam did not move. A strange expression was in her face. She looked coldly and curiously at Jacob. Then a faint flush lightened her pallor.
"The mills of God grind slow but exceeding sure," she said. "I understand; I know what's happened now, and you'll know presently. Eighteen and more years ago I came into this room for the first time, and I saw a sight that shook me to the roots of my being. I saw that you'd flung another book to lie on the Bible. Looking back, I've often wondered why I didn't stop your marriage with our daughter on that. But the Lord chose that things should go on; and they went on. And He was looking ahead to this; and, in His mercy, He showed me yesterday that nothing better than this could have happened. He showed me yesterday, when you spoke blasphemies in my ears, that it was time Margery left you if she was to save her soul. So I'm not surprised at what you've told me to-night. This is all God's plan. He chooses strange tools to do His work, as you said yesterday, and He's chose you yourself and no other, to part you from your wife. You understand that, don't you? It ain't Adam Winter, or any other man, that's come between you and the mother of your children. It's yourself—led to it by an outraged God. You are one of the doomed and always was, as I've known too well these many days, though, Christian like, I hoped and prayed for you. But the Lord knew, and He's took our child from the evil to come and—hear this—He'll take your children from the evil to come also. There must be offences, Jacob Bullstone, but woe—woe to them that bring them! Our child shall hear your voice no more as you have sworn; and neither shall you hear her voice, nor see her again, nor yet her shadow. If you'd been a saint till now, this piece of work would have damned you, and henceforth you'll go the scorn of every self-respecting woman and the hate of every man. And you'll call on the hills to cover you, but they won't."
She got up and looked at her husband.
"Now we can go," she said.
"And understand this," added Barlow, whose voice, even in passion, sounded genial and mellow contrasted with his wife's—"Mind this, you dirty dog, if I spend every farthing I have on earth, and have got to borrow more on my knees from my neighbours, I'll fight you to the end, till my daughter's righted in the face of the nation. And when that's done, may God help you, for there won't be any other party to do it. And Winter will say the same."
Jacob was unshaken.
"The spoken word remains," he answered, "and the long story remains—every item—stamped in my brain for eternity. They may lie; but justice is justice. No power on earth can undo what's done, or leave it doubtful."
"You speak true," said Mrs. Huxam. "God Almighty will see to that. There'll be no shadow of doubt on earth, or in hell, or heaven, when this is blazed to the light."
They went out to drive away. Snow had begun to fall again and the full force of a blizzard was reserved for this night.
"Best tell your driver to go by the lower road," said Jacob calmly, as he stood and saw them depart. "There'll be drifts already on the other way."
BOOK II
Within a month of his wife's departure, Jacob Bullstone began to perceive the full significance of the thing that he had done.
He learned that his petition would be opposed and he received from Barlow Huxam a cheque, being the present market value of the land on which the postmaster's house was in course of erection. And time had opened his eyes to other issues, for he found that the sympathy he anticipated was not forthcoming. Acquaintances evaded him, and when he expected his few friends to express regret at his misfortunes, they did not. Indeed all were anxious to avoid the subject on such occasions as they were unable to avoid him. From a brief, unnatural quest of fellow-creatures, therefore, and an inner impulse, to seek a spirit of support, Jacob soon turned back into himself, since no such spirit appeared. Time dragged and he grew more and more restless on discovering the body of public opinion ranged against him.
One thing he had done, two days after the outrage that demanded it. He had first written to Adam Winter expressing his regret for his violence; and he had then torn up the letter and gone to see the master of Shipley in person.
He learned that Samuel Winter was ill and Adam on the land. Their aunt spoke to him, and if looks could have done him evil, Jacob must have suffered. She answered his questions with the fewest words possible, then shut the door in his face.
Jacob sought Winter, found him presently, walked up to him and spoke.
"I only want to say this: that I'm sorry I struck you. I was three parts mad at the time. But I did a wrong thing to assault you and I'm prepared to suffer my penalty in that matter."
Adam was not at work. He walked on the sheltered side of a hedge, with his hands in his pockets, and now he looked curiously at the other.
"Do such a trifle as that trouble you?" he asked. "Well, I've heard you. Now you'd better go. There's nothing to be said between us till I answer you afore the law."
"Are you wise to deny it and bring me to the proofs?"
The other cut him short.
"Go," he said, and Jacob turned away.
He puzzled not a little to understand why his wife's family were prepared to defend the case, and supposed that they must honestly believe their daughter to be wronged. He explained this on the assumption that appearances set against the likelihood of such an offence, and they knew not that the final evidence was in his own possession. He had conversations with his lawyer and found Mr. Dawes not in the least helpful. The old man had obeyed him with extreme reluctance; but he did not pretend to be in sympathy with his client, and the fact that both Jacob's wife and Adam Winter were prepared to oppose the appeal and deny the offence went far to make Mr. Dawes still less sanguine. He tried again and again to change Bullstone's mind and failed; but his attitude served to create increased bewilderment in the other. Indeed Jacob puzzled to see how isolated he had become. The fact made him still more determined and still more distrustful of everybody but himself. He resented such lack of understanding and was impelled by it to trumpery emotions, ridiculous in the light of his present huge affliction. They persisted, however, and his wounded pride drove him forward with increasing obstinacy to fight to the end, that his wrongs might be proved and his justification appear. There awoke a desire to confound those who now set flowing the tides of criticism against him. They came as a new thing, contrary to experience, for he had always understood that the betrayed husband might count upon the support of most serious-minded people. At home there was no pity for him save in one quarter. The children came and went from their grandparents, and he had expected that they might bring messages; but they never did. Not a syllable ever reached him from his wife, or from the Huxams. Indeed his own boy and elder girl were restive and taciturn under this terrible situation. Once Avis reported that Margery was ill, and Peter openly corrected her for mentioning her mother at Red House. Only Auna continued trustful, but she missed her mother and was very downcast and silent. She, too, went to see Margery; but even she had nothing to say on returning home.
Once Jacob asked Auna if her mother were at the post-office; but the girl only looked frightened and shook her head. Whereupon he soothed her.
"Don't take on, Auna. Trust me. The others can't, but you understand me best. You must trust me as much as you love me. Mother and I have got to part, because she has done what I can't forgive. Indeed she wouldn't come back any more if she could. She won't want to do that. But I hope you'll stop with me, because I don't see how we could ever live without each other. But you must all decide that for yourselves when I've been to London."
It was a strange speech to Auna's ear, yet she felt no doubt. To live away from her mother seemed a terrible thought, but life away from her father must be impossible. She told herself that she would sooner be dead than live without him, and she assured him of the fact; whereupon he warned her.
"Always think that whatever may happen," he said. "There will be people who will tell you that I am the wicked one; but everybody will know differently before very long. For God forbid that I should tell anything but the truth, Auna; and the truth is enough. And many hate me and speak evil against me, and I know Avis and Peter believe it, and John Henry believes it, else he'd have been over to see me before now. But you mustn't believe it. You mustn't let anything come between us, Auna."
Already with proleptic instinct he sought to tighten the bonds between the child and himself; already he felt that a time might quickly come when, of all his family, she alone would be left. But only a passing mood prompted him to this scene with the girl. Again and again, while time dragged intolerably and he smarted under consciousness of the people's aversion, he calmed himself with assurance that time would soon vindicate and justify. Then those who now lacked pity for his plight, or anger against his wrongs, would be the first to come forward and acknowledge their errors.
One supporter he had—of a sort who rather embarrassed him than not. Yet the new kennel-man, George Middleweek, was staunch enough, and having gleaned particulars of the situation, though not from Bullstone, resolutely upheld Jacob.
Middleweek succeeded Barton Gill, who had now finally withdrawn from Red House to live in a cottage half a mile distant, and since the new-comer's character was clouded by past intemperance, he entertained a lively regard for Jacob, when he took him on trial against so grave a fault. But Mr. Middleweek understood dogs and promised to be valuable. He swore by his new master from the first and also won Peter's regard.
He was a widower of fifty, and he had the wit to take something of Jacob's measure after a month at Red House. Then he ventured on a friendly word or two and feared that he had been unwise, since Jacob took no notice at the time; but, later on, George perceived that his goodwill had been acceptable.
A week before all interested parties would be called to London, Bullstone visited William Marydrew, though a shadow now existed between them. For even William proved no whole-hearted friend in Jacob's opinion, and he had been astonished to find that the old man terribly doubted.
William declared the tragedy a personal one; he felt for both parties and was aged by a misfortune so unexpected.
"I thought nobody would question that I was right," said Jacob, "and yet such is the regard in most people for the woman over the man that even you——"
"But you can't well understand, from your own-self point, how this looks to the world at large, including me," explained William. "It's come on all the nation like a bolt from the blue, because no thought of such a fatal thing ever fouled the air. The dirtiest tongue would not have dared to whisper it. 'Tis beyond belief and experience of the parties; and what seems the gathered knowledge of many days to you, falls on our ears like a clap of thunder. And so you can't expect folk to side with you as a matter of course, Jacob. On the contrary, 'tis the last thing you might have expected with such a record for fine living and clean behaviour as your wife has. And the last straw was when we heard that she and Adam Winter deny and defy you and he going to stand up for their good names. The common people don't know much, but where human nature's the matter, they be quite as clever as the scholars, and often a damn sight cleverer; because the poor are up against human nature all the time and life teaches them the truth about it; whereas the other kind miss it, owing to book larning being so mighty different. And hearing that Adam and Mrs. Bullstone are going to fight you, the people take their side; because well they know they wouldn't stand up before a judge and jury if their cause weren't good. No—they'd cut and run, as you expected to see 'em."
"The people argue without knowledge of the facts," answered Jacob; "but you, who have heard the facts from me in secret and know whereon my case stands—how you can still hold the balance against me, for all our long friendship—that puzzles me, William."
"I'm a truthful man where my memory will let me be," answered Mr. Marydrew, "and so I won't pretend anything. Words have as many meanings as a songbird have notes, Jacob, and the ear be often bluffed into believing things by the mind that is hungry to believe 'em. Against the words, which sounded to your ear as if them two was in each other's arms, you've got to balance what's mightier than words. That's deeds and the conduct of a lifetime, and principles that have never been doubted. Winter's life all men know. He's religious in a true sense, and though I've got no use for the Chosen Few, no more than you have, yet you can't deny that there's never been one of 'em catched out in a crooked deed."
"It's that canting, stiff-necked sort who always are caught soon or late," answered Jacob, "and I'll say this, William: I believe that if my late wife had had her way, she'd have been much too clever to take this line. She knows the damnable truth in her heart, and she's been driven into denying it by her parents—not for her own sake, but their credit. She never told them the truth of course. And if she had, seeing there are no witnesses that I can call, they'd deny it."
But Billy shook his head.
"Mrs. Huxam wouldn't have made her husband fight for a lie. She believes that her daughter is a wronged woman, and she'll be true to her rooted faith, that this has happened for good by the will of God. Of course I don't believe that everything that happens is to the good myself, but Judith Huxam holds to that opinion, and she's saying that what you've done puts you down and out for eternity, while it opens the door to your wife's salvation, which you were making doubtful. You'll find that this dreadful job won't shake her in her opinion, that God's behind all; and the upshot won't shake you in your opinion, that God have nothing to do with our disasters—beyond building us in a pattern that's bound to breed 'em.
"You and me agree that the evil that matters to us comes from within—so there you are. And the pity is that the evil we breed can't stop with us, but must pour over for other people; and that again shows it isn't only the evil we breed from within matters, because we be all called upon to suffer, more or less, from the evil that others breed. In fact 'tis a very pitiful come-along-of-it every way and I wish to God I'd gone to my rest afore it happened."
Thus William discoursed; but he did not depress his hearer. Jacob Bullstone could only wonder at the blindness of his neighbours. He wasted no more time in resenting it. He only pressed forward to the hour when all would justify him and grant that he was not deceived.
Billy changed the subject, though that was difficult to do. During these tumultuous days he dreaded the appearance of Bullstone and sometimes even made shift to avoid him. For, like many others, he was deeply sensible of his friend's approaching downfall and, unlike many others, who now hated Jacob, he—a lifelong friend—mourned for the future and feared the shape that it must take with such a man.
"How's your new hand, George Middleweek?" he asked. "He's a chap as knows his own mind—faulty though it is."
"A success. I like him, because he is sane and understanding. After Barton Gill he's a comfort. He has character and a pretty good knowledge of life. And he won't fall over the drink again. I've let him into my feelings a bit—not about my troubles, but my opinions in general. He's a widower and doesn't trust religious people, nor yet women."
William laughed at this description.
"So much the more time to give to the dogs. I've often known them as was devoted to dogs didn't like women. Yet, though they be oftener compared to cats, I've known a good few dog-like women also. Not so much dog-like towards men, but dog-like to duty and religion and children and so on. My daughter, Mercy, was such a woman. Duty and religion were one with her. In fact duty was her religion and she made it a very good working faith. For what more can you ask of religion than to keep you out of mischief and to make you live in honesty and charity with your neighbours? That's reality; but a lot of religion is not. I knew a saint of God once, and she was on all accounts the most objectionable woman I ever did know—made the very thought of Heaven chilly. A bleak, holy woman, as never did a wrong thing, or thought a wrong thought, and yet left the bulk of her neighbours in a beastly temper after she'd been along with them five minutes. How she did it nobody could understand. The very parson she sat under gave her a miss when he could."
"Women have wronged men far oftener than men have wronged them," said Bullstone and William sighed doubtfully.
"There's less understanding between the men and women than there was," he answered. "Education drives 'em apart instead of draws 'em together. The women be getting so famous clever that they see a lot about us that used to be hidden from 'em, and we don't bulk so grand in their eyes as we did. They have a deal hidden in 'em that's been waiting to come out; and now it's beginning to do so. It was always there, mind you, but hid under ignorance, and I say us men haven't half known our luck all these years."
Jacob listened.
"They're changing for the worse," he said.
"They are trying out the stuff hid in 'em," repeated William. "Woman be God A'mighty's last creation, Jacob, and no doubt He worked into 'em pretty near everything He'd got left over. Us never will understand all there is to 'em, and only a fool thinks he can."
"I was such a fool."
"Don't drag yourself in. Keep your mind open. That's what I pray you to do. You've appealed to the Law and you must abide by the Law. And if it holds that you are mistook; then——" He broke off and took the younger man's hand.
"I'm your friend, be it as it may," he said.
Jacob nodded, shook the ancient hand and went his way without words.
For a moment he considered William's broken sentence, but could not see what might have finished it.
Indeed Mr. Marydrew himself felt the fatuity of any ultimate thought or hope at this crisis.
With very genuine grief in his eyes he watched Bullstone depart.
"Broke on the wheel of the world, because he weren't turned true," he said to himself. "But which of us be? Which of us be? Not one."
Spring had conquered the river valleys and was climbing to hilltop again. Those old pack-horse tracks, where bygone generations of beast and man have gradually beaten the ways down and down, until they run lower than the fields and the woods about them—those deep, heat-holding Devonshire lanes were dowered with green once more and lush with young leaves and fronds. At their feet opened wood sanicle and dewy moschatel; crowning them the bluebells wove their purple and scattered their fragrance; beside rill and water-trough golden saxifrages shone, and the wood strawberry was in blossom with the violet.
Amelia, after noon on the day that followed Adam Winter's return from London, put on her sunbonnet and taking a man's walking-stick, which she had always used since her illness, crossed Shipley Bridge, passed over the green space beyond and presently reached the home of Mr. Marydrew. She knocked and he came to the door.
"Morning, Billy," she said. "I thought you'd like to know how it went. Adam got back last night and just catched a train after the verdict was given. T 'others come home to-day—so he believes."
"I needn't ax you for the verdict. I see it in your face," he answered. "But come in and tell me, what you've heard."
She sat by his kitchen fire presently and tapped the ground with her stick to drive home the points. He listened without comment.
"'Tis a triumph for the Chosen Few against the ways of darkness," declared Amelia, "and it went very much indeed as you said it would; and we won't talk about him, nor yet the proper wreck and ruin he's made of himself, because we shan't agree about that. But this is what happened. He said what his beastly thoughts made him believe was the truth; and his wife and my nephew told what was the real truth; and then his great weapon against them broke his own head. He gave out certain words, that he swore he'd heard Margery and Adam use in Adam's own bedroom by night. He'd heard Margery say, 'Quick, quick—there's a dear'; and he'd heard Adam say, 'Come, then—come.' And Margery had laughed."
Mr. Marydrew nodded.
"That was his tower of strength; but I always warned him he might have heard wrong, and that if they denied it there was only his word against theirs."
"They didn't deny it," answered Miss Winter. "Like the truthful creatures that they are, they admitted every syllable—and why not? For how were them words said do you suppose? The truth was this. Poor Samuel had been struck down by the illness just after Adam recovered. Margery had brought some nice food for me, and Adam had axed her to come upstairs and coax Samuel to take his medicine, which he refused to do. It was in Samuel's room and to Sammy himself, while she offered him his physic in a wine-glass, that Margery said, 'Quick, quick—there's a dear'; and it was to Samuel that Adam said, 'Come, then—come.' And then Samuel had bolted his physic and Margery had laughed at the face he pulled. And when they heard that explanation, the jurymen believed it. They had long got restive and weary of the whole piece of nonsense, and now they said they were satisfied, and Adam says that anybody could have seen, even before the jury spoke, that the judge was also terrible tired of it. The great judge summed up on the evidence that Bullstone brought forward, and that his wife and Adam explained, and he talked mighty straight to the petitioner—that's Jacob Bullstone—and told him that he'd let vain imaginings get hold on his mind and allowed his jealousy to poison his vision and his sense of justice and honour to his wife and to the co-respondent—that's my nephew. He said that in his opinion it was a dreadful thing that good money and good time should have been wasted over an obstinate and mistaken man's error. Then he talked to the jury, and presently the jury went out. But in three minutes by the clock they was back in court and dismissed the petition with costs, and all his fabric of lies and flimsy fancies was down in the dust. And that means Bullstone can't get no divorce, and Margery and Adam come out of it without a shadow upon 'em, and her hateful husband have got to pay the lawyers every penny and all the expenses. Because the judge agreed with the verdict, and went so far as to say that there were no grounds whatever for the suit, and that it should never have been brought. In a word right has triumphed, and I shall always think a lot more respectful of the Law than I have in the past."
"Costs follow the verdict, of course," answered Billy, after considering this matter in silence. "And what else follows it? We shall see as to that. Time must pass. A good flight of time be the only thing for all parties, Amelia."
"Time can do a lot," she said, "but it can't undo what's done; and if you think——"
"Let time pass," he repeated. "Only time will heal the sores."
"You needn't talk like that," said the old woman. "Adam haven't got no sores, except natural sorrow for an ill-used woman. For himself, nought can gall one like him. He's above the people's blame or praise, for when a man goes into a law court, and gets mauled by a paid lawyer, whose business be to show him in the wrong; and when he comes out of it with only the respect of his fellow-creatures, and never a stain on his life and history—then you may reckon he's a bit out of the common. And she was white as death in court and fainted once. And my nephew's terrible sorry for the woman, and sorry for himself, too, because he says he can never have any more to do with her. It's a natural instinct in him that they must be nought to each other after this; and I doubt not Margery will feel the same. Their lives can never touch in friendship no more, William."
"Very like they would both feel so," admitted Billy. "And what does Adam say about Jacob Bullstone?"
"He won't name him, and when Samuel cursed him and threatened great blows against him, Adam bade his brother be careful to do no evil. All he said was that Bullstone would suffer last and suffer longest."
"A very true saying, and your nephew be the wisest of all concerned," declared the old man. "For Adam this came as the greatest shock, because it burst upon him more unexpected and terrible than on the woman even. She knew her husband's weakness and, for brave pride, hid it from all eyes, including Adam's. And he will agree with me that 'time' is the only word."
"In your opinion it may be," answered Amelia; "but in the opinion of the Chosen Few, I reckon 'eternity' will be the only word. And don't you think, or dream, or tell Adam, or this fool, Bullstone, or anybody else, that time be going to soften it, because there's plenty of righteous people about as will take very good care that time does no such thing."
"That's what I'm afraid of," admitted Billy; "but don't you be one of them, my dear. If us would only let time, like patience, do her perfect work, wounds might often heal that never do; but no doubt a lot of godly folk won't be content to stand by and leave this pair in the hands of God."
"What God wills must happen," answered Amelia, "but you may bet your life, William, He won't will to bring them two together again; and nobody but a vain thinker and a man weak in faith would hope such a horror. However, you can very well leave Margery to her Maker and her mother; and as to her husband, if he was a man, he'd hang himself."
"Don't you be angry," urged Mr. Marydrew. "Your nephew have come out as he went in, without a shadow upon him. For the rest, don't you cast a stone. That ain't like you. Let charity conquer."
"You're his side we all know," answered Miss Winter; "and I'll give you a warning for yours. Don't let your sense of justice go down afore the wicked man. He'll gnash his teeth no doubt and wring his hands; but don't you try to come between him and his punishment, Billy, because you can't."
"True. I can't," he replied. "If you knew Bullstone like what I do, you'd have no fear he was going to escape anything."
Then Amelia astonished him by a penetration for which he had not given her credit. Her intuition may have sprung from anger—a fruitful source of bitter truth—but it threw a light upon what might presently happen, and William was not prepared, though much inclined, to contradict.
"You say that. But a woman always knows one side of men better than any man can, and old maid though I may be, I'll tell you this. Bullstone ain't the sort to lie in the dirt for his sins and scrape himself with potsherds. Don't you think that. He'll snatch at hope, like the drowning at a straw. He'll look at it all from his own point of view, as usual, and fifty to one he'll fool himself there's a way out. Yes—he won't see himself as all clean and honest men see him, William. He'll only see that his wife's a pure woman and that he was mistook to think her a whore. And what then? Have he got the decency to pour ashes on his head for shame, and slink away from the sight and sound of men? Not him! He'll say Margery's worthy of him, after all, and that he must have her home again. He'll expect presently to find her forgive him like the Christian she is, and it will be his fixed dream and hope to win her back at any cost—till he wakes from the dream and the hope dies. And not till then will his true punishment begin. That's Jacob Bullstone, and that's the man his wife knows, and we know, and you'll live to know. Far ways off what you pictured—eh?"
The ancient doubted.
"What you say about a woman knowing a side of man's mind that other men do not, be very likely true," he answered. "But I trust you will live to see yourself mistook in this matter. It's a great thought and you may be right; but if that happened, along with it would go a lot more that's in the man, which I know and no woman does. I can only say again, let time take charge, and I wish nobody else but time was going to have a hand in it."
While they talked, Adam Winter wandered, unseeing, among his sheep on the hill with his hands in his pockets and a sense of anticlimax in his soul. The excitement was ended. He had seen himself justified and cleared; he had seen an innocent woman pitied; and he had seen Bullstone confounded. Now he was in the midst of sweet things and breathing fresh air with the heights rolling before his eyes and the larks aloft. But no exhilaration, only a sense of sickness and misery hung over him. He, too, longed for the time to pass, that the sordid memories of the trial might grow fainter.
Elsewhere Jacob Bullstone travelled from London and sat wrapped in his thoughts. But they were no covering for him. They fled past in wild rags and tatters, as the steam across the train window; and he could not frame a consistent argument, or follow any line of reasoning. All was chaotic, confused, hurtling, and every thought lashed like a whip. He struggled against the rush of ideas as a man against a blinding storm. He could clutch at nothing for support; or perceive any steadfast glimpse through this welter of what the future held in store. He was too astonished to suffer much as yet, save unconsciously, as an animal suffers. The reality, as it had developed in a law court, took a form so utterly unlike that which he had accepted as reality, that simple amazement reigned in him for a long time. It supported him in a sense through the trial and, now, as he came home, it gradually gave place to bewilderment, which, in its turn, quieted down until the stormy waters of his mind grew sufficiently smooth to offer a reflection of the situation newly created, and he began to trace the picture of the future.
He was trying to appreciate this evasive vision and find some firm, mental rock for his own feet when he got home again. But as yet nothing clearly emerged, and as often as he clutched at a steadfast-seeming point from which to start thinking, the image broke up under the storm swell which still swept through his mind. He felt as one in the presence of death. He desired to know, now that this earthquake had fallen upon him and his, who were left alive. He felt himself to be first among the dead, and believed, until much later, that existence could only be a living death henceforward.
Then he tramped after noon through the lanes, carrying his bag and sweating under the black clothes he wore. He pursued the familiar way, walked, ridden, driven a thousand times from boyhood to manhood, and he found an empty, peaceful spot in his brain that could see the bluebells and mark the breaking riot of the green. This consciousness of spring served to revive an element which had persisted with him during the past destruction and denunciation of the Divorce Court. He had listened humbly to the appalling errors the Law declared him to have committed, and he had viewed without passion the naked picture of his mistaken suspicions—each displayed and each destroyed by truth in turn. He felt no rage at this juncture—only the gathering surprise that finally overwhelmed him for a time, to the exclusion of more vital emotion. But, as the judge spoke, he felt great, vital wounds inflicted one after the other on his soul, yet endured them without flinching. Still the shame and condemnation were less than the astonishment, that his convictions should be but a phantom dance of falsity coloured to look like truth by his own sick mind.