ON THE HILL
For the first time Peter Bullstone went to the great annual Cruft's
International Dog Show with Barton Gill. Jacob exhibited every year,
but very seldom accompanied his dogs to London; and now his son was
allowed the grand experience of "Cruft's."
"You'll soon be old enough to do this work on your own," promised the
boy's father, and Peter set forth, with Mr. Gill to take care, not
only of him, but the six Irish terriers entered to uphold the fame of
Red House.
John Henry was gone to Bullstone Farm, and home to Margery seemed
very empty without him; but she often saw him and he came, at his
father's direction, to Sunday dinner when he could do so.
Then happened an incident steeped in deep emotion for husband and
wife. It was a quality of Jacob's failure to reason that his life,
down to its most trifling incidents, suffered contamination. As
existence, even to the least details, will wake the breath of
creative imagination in an artist, so, where a passion has obtained
complete mastery, no minute event of life but is unconsciously passed
through the test of that noble, or vitiated, outlook on all things.
The smallest action challenges the paramount emotion and is
illuminated by that gracious, or evil, light.
Thus, when Jacob Bullstone, upon a February day, saw Adam Winter
strolling up the river valley with his gun on his shoulder, the sight
set fire to thought as usual; and it did more. An appetite, stilled
of late under press of normal life, had quickened after its rest. An
ugly idea instantly moved in Bullstone's brain and he resisted it;
then it returned and he attended to it. His mind worked, until
presently he told himself that the inspiration, suddenly flashed to
him, was good rather than evil. It sprang adult and powerful. It
did not grow. He had plunged into it almost before he knew it was
upon him, and he had taken the first step before considering the
last. He was swept away; and in five minutes the base thing had been
done, for yielding to sudden, overpowering impulse, he acted. He
returned from the kennels, told Margery that Adam Winter had gone up
the valley to shoot snipe, and then, after a pause, declared his
intention of visiting a friend at Brent.
"I'm free for the minute and have been owing him a call for a month
of Sundays," he said. "I'll be back sometime; but you needn't expect
me till you see me."
He changed his coat and hat and left the house quickly; then, before
reaching Shipley Bridge, he turned right-handed up the hill, skirted
the copse that crowned it and plunged into the shaggy pelt of the
slopes behind Red House. Hence, himself unseen, he could observe the
valley beneath him and the path that passed along beside the river.
He moved fast and had soon reached his destination and thrown himself
into a hollow over which stood a naked thorn. Here he was invisible,
while his eyes commanded the vale beneath. He could see Winter
beyond the river islets and mark his fox-terrier working through the
fallen brake and tangle--a white spot in the sere. Nothing else
moved and he panted from his swift actions and watched the vale.
Then shame rose, like a fog, and chilled the ferment of his mind.
What had he done? Fired by opportunity, driven by awakened, raging
lust of doubt, he had abandoned his rational purpose for the day and
set another trap for Margery. What was he now doing? Having lied to
her, he was spying upon her in cold blood. He revolted against the
naked vileness of such a statement and sought to clothe it in
sophistry, that it should be bearable. He assured himself that he
did his wife no wrong, since she was ignorant of his action and must
ever remain so if innocent; while, for himself, this test, painful
though it was, might prove a godsend and reassure his mind and
cleanse his doubts for ever. If she did not come, a weight must roll
off him and peace return; if she did come, he would see her actions
and measure the significance of them. In either case he was
justified. And while he argued thus, he felt the sickness of his
soul. He planned to give her half an hour, then he would go on his
way to Brent and do what he had promised to do. He was too far from
the valley in his present watching-place and now moved down, sulking
like a fox through the gullies on the hillside and keeping out of
sight of any possible spectator. He proceeded a hundred yards, then
found a ridge above a badger's holt--a hole between two blocks of
granite that supported each other.
He reflected with his eyes on the valley and each moment heartened
him. He heard Winter's gun--the faint report of two barrels fired
quickly one after the other, but Adam was now out of sight. That he
should in reality be shooting was a good sign. He had evidently not
taken the gun as a blind, with his thoughts elsewhere. Reason strove
with Bullstone. Only twenty minutes remained and then he would be
gone. From beneath the river lifted its murmur in the clear cold
air. The low sun had already withdrawn behind the hills and the
valley lay in shadow, while the sky above it was full of light.
Jacob felt the contrast between this purity and peace and his own
spirit. Again and again he dragged out his watch and wished that
time would hasten and liberate him. Before the end he had grown
conscious of great evil within him and suffered despair under his
weakness--the passing despair of a drunkard, or gambler. Then he
heard a rustling and a trampling. His milch goats had wandered up a
green lane in the hill, where grass extended through the banks of the
fallen bracken. There were half a dozen of them and a kid or two.
Seven minutes yet remained to complete the half hour and Bullstone
was already preparing to be gone. Then he saw Margery. She entered
the valley from a gate beyond the kennels and came forward. She wore
a red woollen coat and a white sunbonnet. His eyes grew hot and he
felt his heart beat so fast that a mist blurred the conspicuous
vision below. For a few moments he lost her and rubbed his eyes.
She did not reappear and he lay staring at the empty valley and
hoping he had only seen a shadow conjured out of his own thoughts.
Then a slight, brown figure appeared and he saw Auna running after
her mother. She, too, was lost and another moment later Jacob
perceived his wife ascending the hill. She lifted her voice and he
understood that she was only there to call in the goats.
Thus he was thrown from one shock to another: now thankful that she
did not come; now sickened before the sight of her; now again
conscious that his fears were vain.
Auna caught up with her mother and he heard their voices. Then, in
the gust of a great relief, he was confronted with his own position.
The goats were now above him and in a few minutes Margery and his
daughter would be at his elbow. Auna ready ran forward and it was
too late to get away without being seen and recognised. He panted in
agony, knowing what this must mean. Then he remembered that the
presence of the child would at least create a respite. He turned and
pretended to be examining the badger's burrow as Auna approached and
saw him.
"Father!" she cried out, and then shouted to her mother. She ran
into his arms, never stopping to wonder what had brought him here,
and then Margery, who much wondered, joined them. She knew her
husband's face exceeding well and with a sinking heart read the
truth. Yet before she spoke, she strove to banish her conviction. A
man might change his mind and many things were strange--even
terrible--until one heard the explanation which banished both mystery
and fear out of them. But Jacob was not a skilled liar and he had no
art to invent any plausible excuse. Indeed he hardly tried, for he
knew that his wife would understand. He said something about the
badger, that had killed four hens and bitten their heads off a few
days before, and declared that he had found its home; Auna was well
satisfied and hoped the wicked badger would be punished for his
crimes; while Margery fell in with the explanation, as long as the
child was with them. Indeed she said nothing and, as Auna chattered
and they rounded up the goats and brought them homeward, she asked
herself what she should say. She was in no hurry. She saw clearly
what had tempted Jacob to spy, and she knew that he must perceive the
truth was not hidden from her. And yet she argued that, perhaps, he
did not know that she knew. Margery asked herself which was the
better of two courses open: to inquire, as though she had forgotten
his mention of Adam Winter, what had really made her husband hide on
the hill, or to challenge him and reveal that she perceived he had
set a trap for her and fallen into it himself. She was silent
through the candle-light hours of that evening, and still silent when
Avis and Auna had gone to bed and she sat alone with her husband.
There came a deep yearning for confidence, for some wise and
sympathetic ear into which she might pour her tribulation. From pain
she passed into anger presently, and anger determined her future
action. She felt the sting of this cruelty and not guessing how
opportunity had wakened Jacob's weakness, or that he had striven
against a power beyond his strength to conquer, a natural indignation
overwhelmed her. The futility and horror of such a life crowded down
upon her soul; and it came with the more intensified forces because
of late she had fancied an increase of frankness and understanding in
Jacob. There had been no cloud for a long time and he had retreated
less often into the obscurity and aloofness of speech and mind that
told of hidden troubles. But this outrageous act destroyed hope and
swept away any belief in an increasing security. All was thrown down
and the man's deed revealed to her that still he could not trust;
that he was even capable of telling her a falsehood in hope to catch
her doing something he thought wrong. She asked herself how often he
had already done this? She guessed that the watcher, whom she had
hoped was gone for ever, still spied upon her; that this was not the
first time he had played with her honour thus.
Therefore anger swept her and there came a quick determination to pay
her husband in his own measure heaped up. How often had he imposed a
barrier of silence between them; how often had she not heard his
voice addressed to her for the space of a long day? Now she would be
silent; but her silence was edged with a subtler sharpness than his.
He would indeed be dumb, save before the children. She was not dumb.
She, instead, assumed a cheerful manner and spoke as usual of many
things, only leaving the one thing untouched that she knew was
tormenting his mind. She made no allusion to it and when, alone with
her, he braced himself to endure her reproaches and confess his fault
with penitence, the opportunity was not granted. Then he felt driven
to take the first step and abase his spirit before her; but he could
not and, while he turned sleepless in bed beside her, and she
pretended to sleep, their secret thoughts pursued them. He began to
think she was wise to abandon the incident; he praised her in his
heart; he suspected that silence meant an angelic forgiveness. And
then he tried to convince himself that, perhaps, after all, the
matter had not deeply interested Margery; that she had not linked his
return with any evil purpose, or even remembered that he had told her
Winter was in the valley. He often changed his mind, as Margery
knew, and though she must have guessed that the badger was an excuse,
yet his real object had possibly not occurred to her at all. He
longed to believe this, but his reason laughed at him. He returned,
therefore, to the conviction that, out of her charity, she had
forgiven his weakness, and he felt it would be wisest to let time
pass, that her wound might heal and no more pitiful fawnings and
confessions be demanded from him.
He thought to wake her and show her that he understood her nobility;
but she appeared to sleep so well that he did not disturb her. And
she, meantime, wondered in whom she might confide. She considered
her father, but believed that he lacked the comprehension to
understand; neither could she go to old Marydrew, who had wit enough,
but was Jacob's own nearest friend. Jeremy was too young. Then she
determined to tell her mother.
Her resolution did not weaken with morning, and still Jacob could not
find it in him to speak. The emotional conclusion of the previous
night remained, while the emotion itself was gone. His customary
reserve and love of silence woke with him, and it occurred to him
that Margery might, after all, intend to speak in her own time.
Therefore he kept silence. She only told him, however, that she was
going into Brent, with Auna, to see her mother, who suffered from a
cold and kept her bedroom; and after dinner on that day Margery set
out with her younger daughter.
Bullstone walked to Shipley Bridge with them, then still farther, to
the cottage of Billy Marydrew; and there he took leave of them and
entered.
Margery proceeded, wondering curiously if Jacob shared her intense
desire for the opinion of a third person, whether, indeed, he had not
already poured his terrors into some other heart. A woman certainly
never had won his troubles; he hardly knew half a dozen; but it might
be that he confided in William Marydrew. She was silent as they
tramped the leafless lanes to Brent, reached Aish upon the hillside,
descended over Lydia Bridge to the town. Here she and Auna parted;
her daughter went straight to the Huxams, and Margery turned into her
brother's shop.
Jeremy stood behind the counter and revealed a gloomy mood. He was
the father of two children now, and the second proved to be delicate.
Unaware of his depression, Margery praised the shop window and the
general air of prosperity which her brother had created.
"It's wonderful how you've got on," she said; "a born shopkeeper, as
mother always told us."
"Yes, that's true enough," he admitted, "but I'm afraid I'm reaching
my tether here. Flesh and blood can only stand a certain amount, and
to live with what you hate is a fearful strain. In fact to spend all
my life in an odour of fruit and vegetables and never escape from it,
is beginning to age me a good bit."
"What does the smell matter, if you're making and saving money?"
"It matters to my nerves," explained Jeremy. "I've reached a pitch
of proper loathing now against the contents of this shop, and nothing
but a sense of duty keeps me here. I've got to go on with it, I
suppose, though at a cost none will ever know; but if people, who are
supposed to care about me, only realised how I hate the very touch of
fruit, they might combine and give a thought to the situation."
"What would you like to sell?" she asked.
"Nothing you can eat," answered Jeremy. "I'll never handle food
again if I once escape this heavy cross. I'd sooner live my life
among coal-scuttles and dust-bins than with food--especially fruit
and vegetables. Never again in my born days shall I touch a fruit.
If I could go into dry goods to-morrow, there's no doubt I should
thank God; so would Jane for my sake. However, while the business
sticks to me, no doubt I shall be expected to stick to it--sickening
though it is."
"A pity you didn't go into mother's haberdashery."
"A very great pity," answered her brother. "When the assistant was
away, you'll remember I did lend mother a hand, while Jane looked
after this show; and the relief--to move among materials and refined
things, like gloves and ties and so on, and everything clean and
scentless! However, life's life; I must bite on the bullet and
endure as long as my nature will let me."
"I'm afraid that won't be long," she answered, "for once you get out
of heart about a thing, it's soon 'good-bye.'"
"I had it in my mind to ask Jacob for some advice," replied Jeremy.
"I've got a very great respect for his judgment as you know, and
though I'd not care to put myself under an obligation to many men, I
wouldn't object at all in his case. He did me one very good turn,
and though, as a huckster, I failed in the long run, if he had some
other equally brilliant idea up his sleeve, it might be just the one
thing my nature craves."
Margery threw out not much hope, but promised to speak to Jacob.
"I'm sure he'd help you, or any of us, if he could. His one pleasure
in life is helping people. All the same he won't be able to
understand your point of view this time."
"Not only point of view, but smell and touch," explained Jeremy.
"Let him ask himself what he'd feel if his dogs were swept away and
he had to live with nought but a parcel of cats. Then he'll see what
I'm feeling. Tell him I want to get away from the fruits of the
earth, and never wish to see one of them again; and I'd sacrifice a
lot to do so, and so would Jane."
She left him then and proceeded to her mother's. She felt disturbed
that Jeremy should have failed once more. But she smiled to hear him
talk of 'biting on the bullet.'
"I know what that means better than ever he will," thought she.
Then Margery reflected concerning her own purpose, and, having
already determined to speak to her mother, now asked herself what she
should say. When it became a question of spoken words the difficulty
appeared, for she was no longer in the temper to experiment with any
words at all. Her mood had changed from anger to melancholy; she
weighed her proposed speech and doubted whether, after all, Mrs.
Huxam had better hear it. Something suddenly and forcibly told her
that her mother would not be vague or neutral in such a matter. To
confess to Judith would certainly entail following her mother's
subsequent directions, and Margery much doubted what they might be.
She was still divided in mind when she joined Mrs. Huxam.
The elder sat by a fire in her bedroom, with a shawl wrapped round
her head. From its whiteness her face peered, also pale. Her eyes
were heavy and her breathing disordered, but she was wide awake
listening to Auna, who read the Bible and laboured diligently for her
grandmother with the Second Book of Kings.
"'And Jehoash did that which was right in the sight of the Lord all
his days----'" piped Auna; then she broke off and beamed.
"Oh, granny, isn't it a blessing to find somebody who did right
before the Lord--for a change?"
"It is," croaked the old woman. "Few ever did and few ever will."
Auna, liberated from her record of faulty monarchs, left Margery with
Mrs. Huxam and joined a young woman who operated in the post-office
below.
"It's on your chest, I'm afraid," said Judith's daughter.
"I'm better, however. I shall be down house in a couple of days."
"Take care of the draughts then. February's always your bad month."
"No month is worse than another if you trust the Almighty," answered
Mrs. Huxam. "How's your husband?"
"Jacob's all right."
"No, he isn't all right, and he never will be while he holds off his
Sunday duty. With them who keep live animals, Sunday has got to be
broke in a manner of speaking; but he ought not to let the dogs come
between him and public worship, and well he knows it."
"It isn't the dogs. He hates a crowd," said Margery.
"Then he's all too like to spend eternity in one. Yes, Margery, I
wish very much indeed I could feel more content about Bullstone's
future."
In the light of these serious words, Jacob's wife felt little
disposed to set out of her own sorrows. Indeed they were forgotten,
since her instinct was instantly to respond to the challenge.
"He's always doing good things."
"So you may think, and so may he think; but if your Light is
uncertain, what looks good may be in truth be bad. There's a lot
done that shallow minds applaud for virtue, when the truth is the
motive is wrong and the deed worthless, if not evil. And be that as
it may, we well know that works without faith are of no account."
Margery changed the subject, yet introduced another that could not
but redound to her husband's credit.
"The foundations of the house are dug I hear, mother."
"They are. The villa residence will begin to come into a fact as
soon as we can trust the weather. We shall want your help in the
garden, for we don't know anything about flowers."
"I shall dearly like to help. I long to see you really resting at
last."
"I am content to let it be as it will, knowing that what happens is
right. I wonder sometimes what the Lord will find for my hands to do
when we retire; because, though we speak of retiring, that's no word
for a Christian mouth really. The Christian never retires."
"No, you'll never retire from doing good and helping the people to do
good--I'm sure of that. Has Jeremy told you of his troubles?"
"Me first, of course. I'm weighing them. I've laid them before the
Throne. With Jeremy one has to remember that he was made, by his
Creator's wish and will, a little different from everyday men. He's
got great gifts, and though one could wish he'd been a Pulleyblank,
even to wish it is wrong. When he was here for a bit, while Miss
Mason went into a nursing home, Jeremy delighted me. He belongs to
the old generation of shop people and has got the touch--hands like a
woman and a great power of letting a customer think he's having his
own way, when in reality he is not."
"He hates the green stuff and fruit."
"He feels that he was intended for higher lines."
"I'm going to ask Jacob about him. Jacob would like to pleasure him
again if he could."
"I hope so, I'm sure, Jeremy being your brother and my son. But I've
got my ideas in that matter. Now you'd best to go home. The dark's
coming down and I've talked enough."
"Would you like some of our goats' milk? It's wonderful rich in
cream. It's often done me good."
"Yes," said Mrs. Huxam. "I should like some of your goats' milk, if
you can spare it."
Margery and Auna set out for home, the child richer by a shilling
from her grandfather.
"I cheered him up about grandmother," she said, "because if she was
very ill, she wouldn't have been so interested in the Kings of
Israel, would she?"
Her mother speculated with amusement on Mrs. Huxam's view of Jeremy's
character, and thought how Judith must have regarded such a spirit in
another man. She was in a good temper and glad that she had not
grumbled. Her nature was built to bend before the blast and she was
always quick to react to any improvement in her circumstances. She
considered, whether, after all, it might not be better to speak of
the recent past to Jacob himself, and resolved that she would be
guided by his future attitude. If he remained under the cloud, she
would endeavour to dispel it; but she trusted that in a few days he
might emerge.
They brought good news, for Auna now produced in triumph a telegram
which Barlow Huxam himself had taken off the wires and entrusted to
her, while Margery was with her mother. The child had not told
Margery, but now produced the treasure for her father.
The Red House terriers had taken two first prizes. Auna begged to be
allowed to keep the telegram and add it to her treasures.
"It will be the greatest of all," she said, "and it's signed 'Peter,'
so it must be true."