AT RED HOUSE
Jeremy and his wife went to dinner at Red House a week after their
return home. His marriage afforded mild entertainment to those who
knew him. Some felt sanguine, others prophesied confusion and
failure on a larger scale than he had yet achieved.
As they walked through a June morning, Jeremy explained to Jane that
Jacob Bullstone was a man of affairs and might be expected to help
them.
"Not so much for my sake as Margery's," he admitted; "but he's a
wonderful husband to her, and she will have been at him already I
expect. My sister's delighted that I'm married, and no doubt will
feel that now is the time for my real friends to come forward."
Jane, also of a sanguine temperament, echoed his hopes. She loved
him so much that it seemed hard to suppose the world would deny such
a man his opportunity.
As they neared Red House, they overtook an ancient man walking slowly
before them.
"It's William Marydrew," said Jane. "He was often up over at
Bullstone when Grandfather Catt lived. A proper old figure of fun."
They saluted Billy, who walked with a stick and smoked a clay pipe.
He was bent and travelled slowly. He had snow-white whiskers, which
met under his chin, and a red, crinkled face with a cheerful
expression. His eyes were small and he blinked and saw badly, for
they were weak. Jane told him that she was married, and he said he
had heard about it, but other matters had caused the fact to slip his
memory.
"May you be a happy pair and find life go very suent," he hoped.
Billy seemed, however, not so cheerful as of old.
"I trust you find yourself well," said Jane.
"Very well indeed, my dear," he answered. "If I be allowed to go my
own pace and eat my own food, I don't feel a pang. Threatened
blindness be my only cloud so far as the body is concerned. By
ninety I shall be so blind as a mole. And yet what odds? Even so, I
shall have had the use of my eyes for a quarter of a century more
than most folk."
"You'm a thought downcast, Mr. Marydrew," ventured Jane. "I always
remember you as a great laughter-maker in my grandfather's time."
"So I was then, and so I will be again," he promised. "I'm a funny
old blid--for why? I never look back and be naturally of a hopeful
turn of mind. But just now, owing to a very fatal accident, I'm
under the weather for the moment."
"If there's anything in the world I could do," said Jeremy.
"No, my dear, there's nothing you can do. You see I've just closed
the eyes of my only daughter. Mercy Marydrew's gone to her reward."
"Good Lord, your famous daughter dead!" exclaimed Jane.
"Died at the Cottage Hospital at half after ten," answered the old
man. "And being myself mortal, I'm under a cloud for the minute.
Not for her--not for her. There never was such a huckster in these
parts as Mercy and never a better saleswoman."
"She had a great renown in Plymouth market," declared Jane.
"Yes--a renowned woman for a spinster. And she counted to work for
another five years and then retire. But there comed a growth--one of
they cursed things that creeps into the flesh unbeknownst. You feel
all right for a bit, but death's burrowing in your vitals all the
time; and then you be cut down and wither away."
"I hope she didn't suffer much," said Jeremy.
"I hope she didn't," answered Mr. Marydrew. "I know she's left me
her savings, God bless her; but I'd a lot sooner she'd been at my
death-bed, than I'd been at hers."
"You'll meet again before so very long," murmured Jane.
"A cheering thought," admitted the old man. "Yes, we shall come
together in a few years, though I dare say that good woman's bit of
money will keep me here longer than you might suppose. She knew very
well I wouldn't waste it. I'm sorry for the parish that she's gone.
The farms will look in vain for a huckster like her. The honestest
woman ever I knew, after her mother."
"A very great loss indeed," said Jeremy.
"Yes, so it is then. You can judge a dead person pretty much by the
hole they make when they drop out. Some don't make no hole--I
shan't, and I dare say you won't; but others was so useful to the
neighbours and such a tower of strength, that when they go, you most
wonder how things will be without 'em."
"There's Owley Cot will be empty for one thing," said Jane.
"Yes, it will; and if bricks and mortar could be sorry for
themselves, I dare say her house would grieve."
They had come to a cottage near Shipley Bridge, the home of Mr.
Marydrew.
"The funeral moves on Monday at noon," he said, "and there will be a
pretty good rally of neighbours I expect."
"Everybody of any account will go," declared Jeremy. "She was a most
popular woman."
"Them that respect themselves did ought to go," answered Billy, "let
alone them that respected her. And if you're going to Red House,
break the news and tell Jacob I'll be pleased to hear his sympathy.
I'm very old for a blow like this, and 'tis no good pretending I
don't feel cruel cast down, because I do."
"And it will get worse, when you grasp it," foretold Jane. "I know
it will."
"It's got to get worse afore it gets better," admitted Billy. "I'm
quite prepared to face that. And tell Jacob to look me up in my
misfortune if you please. He won't need to be told twice."
They left him, entered a grassy plateau beside the river, where
towered ruins of old clay works, and so proceeded toward Red House.
They talked concerning Mr. Marydrew's loss and the familiar figure of
his busy daughter. Then they noticed a boy fishing in the river. He
was a sturdy, hatless youngster clad in patched, grey tweeds, with a
mourning band on his left arm.
"That's John Henry," said Jeremy, "Margery's eldest."
"What's he got a mourning band on for?" asked Jane, and he explained
that Jacob's mother had died during the previous winter.
They passed into the shadowy stillness of the fir wood and soon
emerged before Red House. The contours of the place were unchanged,
save for that gradual growth of tree and shrub which escapes the
human eye; but in certain particulars there were alterations; the old
severity of outline was gone; there was less tidiness and more
beauty, for there had come children and flowers. Margery loved
flowers and the plantings of her first wedded year, greatly
prospering, now climbed Red House to its roof and increased on the
river banks. Where roses and bright blossoms could grow, she had
planted them; and they had passed over the river also and mantled the
borders. They intruded into the vegetable patches and so greatly
increased that Jacob sometimes grumbled and uprooted. Where Margery
might set a climbing rose, a tiger lily, a lupin or a larkspur, she
had done so. There were clumps of chrysanthemums for autumn, and the
grass and river sides were sowed with daffodil and crocus for the
spring. This colour flashed in stars and sprays upon the hedges and
by the paths, while in the little garden, once a plat of grass and no
more, now opened many flower beds that broke the green. Even to the
kennels she had gone and roses now hid many of the iron bars. She
declared that her passion was for children, flowers and company; and
of these she lacked not the children, or the bloom.
Margery, in a white gown and a dark blue sunbonnet, met her brother
and his wife and kissed them both. Now she was thirty-four and a
woman of fine presence, yet slight as in her girlhood and delicately
fashioned. She was healthy, but not physically strong. Her eyes
told no secrets but gazed untroubled at the world. None wholly
enjoyed her confidence and she spoke ever of her good fortune, never
concerning any thorn that might be conceded. Thus she was believed
to be a woman wholly happy, and indeed enjoyed her share of
happiness. The delight of a secret had lately lent sauce to
existence; for she, and she alone, was in Jeremy's confidence and had
heard of his betrothal and marriage.
She greeted them with kindly laughter, chid them for a brainless
couple and hoped that her brother would at last find work worthy of a
married man and within his power to accomplish.
Jeremy felt no doubt of it. He prattled to Avis and Auna, his little
nieces, while Margery turned her attention to Jane.
"I shall always care a lot for you," she said frankly, "first for
your husband's sake, then for a reason you forget, but I do not. I
mind you as a little one fifteen years ago, when my husband made
holiday before I was married, and took me to Bullstone Farm. That
was a great day in my life--my first treat with Jacob."
"I remember you very well," answered Jane. "I've told Jeremy I've
never forgot you, and I had a bit of your wedding-cake, that mother
brought home from the Huxams.
"And what about your wedding-cake?"
"We didn't have anything like that. Jeremy was so properly anxious
to get the deed done that we rushed it. Mrs. Huxam's forgiven us,
because she says we were in Higher Hands, and that if the Lord hadn't
wanted it to happen, it wouldn't have; but my mother feels it was a
good bit of a slight to keep it dark, and thinks Jeremy was undutiful
and didn't pay me enough respect. But what does it all matter?"
"Not a bit," declared Jeremy's sister. "He's as good as gold, though
a bit faint-hearted. You'll have to make him take himself more
serious, Jane."
John Henry interrupted them. He returned with two small trout, which
his mother faithfully promised to eat; and then came Peter from the
kennels.
"They are praying for the holidays to come," said Margery. "My boys
both hate their books you must know; and Jacob don't care over-much,
because they're both so clear in their minds what they're wishful to
be."
"That's a great thing," said Jane.
"It is then."
Peter resembled his father, while John Henry was said to be like his
grandfather Bullstone. Both, so Jacob held, were true
Bullstones--strong, self-reliant and determined. They grew fast,
worked harder at home than at school, and longed for the time when
they might begin life seriously--the elder on the land, the younger
at his father's business.
"Peter's got the love of dogs in him on both sides," explained
Peter's mother, "for I always did love the creatures, and so does
Jacob; and John Henry loves farming."
Her husband, for whom they waited, appeared, and calling Jeremy, who
strolled in the garden with his nieces, they went in to dinner.
Jacob Bullstone had grown stouter, but he was very active still and
did the work of a man of fifty without sparing himself. His dark
hair began to grizzle and his face showed lines, but he preserved his
health, lived in the old way and as yet indulged none of the
temptations of middle life.
He chaffed Jeremy, but was in an amiable mood.
"You haven't changed him yet I see," he said to Jane, while he
sharpened a knife and prepared to carve a round of beef.
"I had to bring Auna and Avis a present of course," declared Jeremy.
"They believe in their uncle, they do; and you've got to encourage
people who believe in you."
The girls had shown their father two little brooches.
"Well, we shall see rare sights now no doubt," said Jacob. "With
Jane here to guide the helm, you'll soon astonish us. How did your
mother-in-law welcome you, Jane?"
"Like the wonderful Christian she is," answered Jeremy's wife.
"Kissed me on the forehead and said a few Bible words."
For a considerable time Jeremy and Jane had to listen to the affairs
of their prosperous relations. They were good listeners and praised
all they heard. Of the children only Avis talked. She was a bold,
handsome girl full of self-confidence. Then Margery bade her sons
declare their ambitions and Jacob tried to make Auna talk, but she
was very shy. She sat by her father, a thin, dark maiden, with
beautiful eyes and delicate little hands. Jacob devoted a good deal
of his time to her and tempted her to eat. They whispered together
sometimes. Margery watched them under her lids, smiling. She knew
that Auna was dearer to her husband than the other three children put
together, and, in secret to her alone, he did not deny it.
"She's you again," he would say.
But Margery was not jealous for the boys. Them she set highest, and
of them John Henry came first.
When the meal was done, the children departed and Jacob rambled on
concerning them until Margery brought up the subject of her brother.
"Now let's talk about these young people," she said. "For though
you're thirty, Jeremy, you're terrible young still--hardly wife-old,
I should have reckoned."
"I'm young in heart and old in experience," vowed Jeremy. "I've got
to a pitch when I know very well what I can't do, and am set on
finding something I can."
"I was talking to Adam Winter about you but yesterday," continued
Margery. "He's a man in a small way, but sensible and----"
Jacob interrupted her.
"Sensible no doubt. All your friends are sensible I'm sure; but your
brother's come to hear me I believe."
Margery did not answer. Indeed she did not speak again; but she
smiled to herself and Jacob also smiled. It was an unreal smile on
both faces.
"I'm not going to do anything on the land," explained Jeremy. "I
proved pretty clearly five years ago that I wasn't cut out for the
land."
Jacob chaffed him again.
"Lord knows what you are cut out for--excepting a failure," he said.
"Granted," answered Jeremy; "but that was when I went into life
single-handed. Lots of chaps are failures before they are married;
then, afterwards, they shine out and surprise everybody."
"I've had you in mind. Old Miss Marydrew is going home pretty fast
and she'll leave a gap. I don't say you can fill it, and
single-handed you certainly could not; but along with Jane you might."
Jeremy looked at Jane.
"If I hadn't forgot!" he said. "We met Billy Marydrew back-along,
outside his house, and he was just come from his daughter. She's
dead, and he was very wisht about it."
"Dead!" said Margery. "Poor Mercy gone!"
"Yes, and William wanted it to be told here, and hoped that Mr.
Bullstone would step over," added Jane.
"You ought to have told me before," declared Jacob. "That man is a
dear old friend of mine. The sanest, biggest-hearted soul that ever
I knew, and much to me ever since I was a child. He'll think I'm
hanging back, just because you bird-witted people forgot to tell me."
He rose, but spoke again before he departed.
"Mercy Marydrew was a huckster. She went round in her little cart
and collected butter, eggs and poultry from the farms for Plymouth
market. And to market she went with her baskets, every Friday of her
life for thirty years. Now think of it, Jeremy. How if you did her
job round about, and Jane went to market."
"To drive about in the open air! The dream of my life!" said Jeremy.
"You always say it's the dream of your life, when a new opening is
found for you," laughed his sister.
"Think of it seriously," urged Jacob. "This also means that Owley
Cot, my little house by Owley Farm, is on my hands, and there you'll
be in the heart of your job with the farms all around you. But it's
up to Jane more than you. Whether she'll make a good market-woman is
the question. Now I must be gone for an hour and see that poor chap.
This will hit him harder than he thinks for. I'll be back before you
leave."
"I can't find words to thank you," declared Jeremy, "but I'll show it
in deeds, Jacob. To have my own trap and drive about in the open
among my neighbours! It's almost too good to be true."
They turned to Margery and praised her husband when he was gone.
"It's wonderful how life opens out after you're married," said Jane.
"It does," admitted Margery. "It opens but, as you say, Jane, and
shows you all sorts of things you never dreamed. And it also shows
how every little bit of happiness carries its own worm in the bud.
However, you'll find that out for yourself. You know Owley Cot well
enough of course?"
"Loved it ever since I was a child," answered Jane. "Mr. Elvin's old
mother lived there; and when she died, a game-keeper and his wife was
there for a bit; then Miss Marydrew rented it from your husband."
"And nobody ever had a better tenant. She did her part and Jacob did
his, and I did mine, which was to plant a lot of roses and nice
flowers in the garden. You'll find it perfect, for she had a trick
to make everything about her look flame new all the time. A very
clever woman and Joe Elvin will miss her, for she was one of the
hopeful ones, like her old father, and cheered the man up. He's a
grizzler--born so, yet no call to be. He's had his share of luck and
Jacob says he's pretty snug, but his health's bad."
"I remember Owley Cot," declared Jeremy. "I used to go up to Owley,
to kill rats with my ferret when I was a boy, and I was very friendly
with Joe's son, Robert."
"Robert's going to make a better man than Joe," said Margery. "A
very nice boy, and seeing his father's so melancholy, he's fought shy
of it, and takes a bright view. Jacob says he'll be a tip-top farmer
presently."
"Joe used to be kind to me, because he respected mother such a
lot--and father," declared Jeremy.
"He's kind to everybody in his mournful way," answered Margery; "but
he'd always sooner go to a funeral than a wedding, and when he opens
the paper of a morning, so Robert tells me, he always says, 'And who
are the lucky ones?' Then you find he's reading the deaths. Yet
nobody would hate dying more than him."
Jeremy was full of his prospects. He always expatiated over any new
scheme and saw manifold possibilities.
"Of course I'm the last to build castles in the air, or anything like
that," he declared, "but, all the same, if only Jacob can lend a hand
here with the house and a trap and a horse, he certainly won't regret
it. An energetic man like me, with a good horse, should be able to
do far greater rounds than poor Miss Marydrew, and I'd work up a
connection among the farms for miles and miles round. Then, luckily
Jane is used to a shop, and in the market she would do wonders and
get all Miss Marydrew's old custom with a lot added. In course of
time--probably a very short time--I should pay Jacob's kindness back
with large interest, you may be certain. In fact the idea hasn't a
weak spot that I can see."
"There's got to be a new huckster for certain," said Jane. "It's not
man's work as a rule; but I've known men to do it for their wives."
"It's man's work the way I shall do it," promised Jeremy. "And I
shouldn't wonder if I couldn't beat up a good few customers in
Plymouth myself when they hear of this. I made a lot of nice friends
there."
"Uncle Lawrence might come to you," suggested Margery. She referred
to her mother's brother, Mr. Lawrence Pulleyblank, an owner of
fishing trawlers and a man after his sister's own heart.
Jeremy's face fell.
"I'm sorry to say it, but Uncle Lawrence doesn't like me very much.
You see he got me that last billet, that failed through no fault of
mine; and after he found I was giving up and coming home, he said
some strong things. But you are all the world to Uncle Lawrence,
Margery, and when he hears of this new and much more important step
I'm taking, no doubt, if you dropped a word, he'd buy his butter and
eggs and so on off me and Jane."
"I'm sorry you fell out with him," said Margery.
"I didn't--I didn't," answered her brother. "I don't fall out with
anybody. It was his natural disappointment that I didn't shine in
the artificial manure works. He'll always say it was because I was
weak and couldn't stand the smells. He hasn't got a nose himself,
else he wouldn't live on the Barbican. But I respect him very much
and I hope he'll live to respect me. He's looking forward to your
visit as usual."
Lawrence Pulleyblank, an old bachelor, regarded Margery as his
special joy. She visited him every year, and always took a child
with her.
"It's the turn of Peter," she said, "and we go down in August."
"To think of Owley Cot!" murmured Jane. "Too good to be true in my
opinion. Its little windows catch the morning light, and the
chimney's covered with ivy. Great fir trees with red stems grow over
it and there's an upping-stock for horsemen outside the gate."
"You won't know it for roses now," answered Margery. "Poor dear
Mercy Marydrew--her heart used to sink when I came along with some
new flowers dug up from here. She was all for tidiness, and I do
think flowers gave her more pain than pleasure."
"I like them and I'll tend them well," promised Jane.
Her sister-in-law, regarding her with side glances, perceived that
she was possessed of childish charm. She was a pleading sort of
girl--just the type sure to win Jeremy's affections.
"My own impression is that it's going to mean big money from the
first," said the future huckster. "I'm itching to be at it; and I'm
very hopeful it may be possible to secure some of Miss Marydrew's
furniture, so we can go into Owley Cot as soon as Jacob likes.
Father would help there."
"And we shan't fear to rough it neither," continued Jane. "We've
said to each other, scores of times, that we don't mind how hard life
is, so we share it together."
"Not hard for you, however," promised Jeremy. "I'm the one to bear
the battle and come between you and everything. That's what I'm here
for."
Then they went to look at the kennels.
The family reassembled at tea, and Jacob, who had spent an hour with
Mr. Marydrew, declared that he was bearing up exceedingly well.
"Too sensible to lose his balance under any trouble," he said.
Bullstone found that Jeremy had already undertaken the new work in
spirit and was actually thriving at it, saving money and repaying his
debts.
"Trust me," he said, "and be sure of this, that I shall return good
measure well pressed down, Jacob. This is the chance of a lifetime,
and something tells me my foot is now firm on the ladder."
They parted presently, and while Auna and Avis accompanied them for a
mile on their return journey to Brent, Margery thanked her husband.
"It's like you; I'm sure I'm deeply obliged; and father and mother
will feel as grateful as I do," she said rather formally.
Jacob laughed.
"For you and yours I do it. But don't be too hopeful. Jeremy isn't
built to help on the world--only to be helped on by it."
"Perhaps now he's married----"
"Yes, yes, he'll try valiantly--a most well-meaning chap--but you
can't ask putty to take the place of lead. I'll push him and do what
I may; and so will you. If manners could make him, he'd be all
right; but he's like your rose-bushes--wants a lot of tying up and
supporting."