THE ORANGES
Bullstone's monument of madness was nearly completed.
One day he met Adam Winter talking to Margery and Avis, as he
returned from Owley Farm to dinner, and anon, in the kennels, Avis
asked the meaning of words that Mr. Winter had spoken to her mother.
"He said some people have to take their pleasure like a dog snatches
a bone--with an eye on the whip--father. What's that signify?"
"Who was he speaking about?"
"I don't know. He said it to mother, and she laughed and told him
that pleasure took that way would be half pain."
"It means--it means--nothing at all. Just a way of speaking. Hungry
dogs will steal bones--and whips will find 'em, soon or late. And
all pleasure's half pain when you grow up. The thing is to be young,
like you, Avis. Then pleasure's real I hope."
"Would you like for me to marry Bob Elvin, father?"
"Would you like to?"
"He asked me last Sunday going to chapel, and I said I would; and
he's coming next Sunday to beg we may be tokened."
An idea so great had occupied Jacob's mind fully enough at another
moment. But now there was no room for it.
"I knew he was going to, yet didn't think he'd have the cheek for
another year."
"I love him with all my heart, and grandmother thinks he's a very
good, proper-minded young man. She's agreeable; but she says it
mustn't be for a full year, till I'm over eighteen."
"Quite right. I'll talk to Master Bob next Sunday."
"Are you vexed, or pleased about it?"
"Why, I'm both, my dear. Vexed to think how the time flies--vexed in
a sort of way to find you're wife-old. Yet that's foolishness, isn't
it? And pleased that you've fallen in love with an honest,
hard-working man."
"You won't dress him down, or say he's looked above him, or anything
like that?"
"I don't know what I'll say. Certainly not that. Run in now.
You've given me something to think about."
"Mother likes Bob very much indeed."
"I don't know anybody that hasn't a good word for him."
"And I'm well thought upon too, father."
"Why not, Avis; why not?"
"Nothing can ever come between me and Bob," she said, then left him,
and he forgot her instantly.
His thoughts drifted through the familiar channels and he read
pregnant and personal things into Winter's jest. He began at the old
starting point, strove to bring a judicial mind to bear upon the
question, asked himself, for the thousandth time, if he had ever
found a cause to suspect any man but this man, or associate with
Margery the name of another. He remembered that with some
exceptions, now faint in vanished years, he had never done so. Once
or twice during their early married days, a dog-fancier had spoken to
Margery in words too free and easy for his taste; but no man remained
in their united lives save Winter. His wife was not a woman who
particularly enjoyed male society, or strove to challenge the other
sex. So far as he knew, her acquaintance did not number a dozen men
of her own generation.
To this fact he always returned, and it increased rather than abated
his tribulation. He told himself, falsely, that had she appreciated
male society and been at her best and happiest in it, innocence would
be far easier to assume; he assured himself that he would not have
minded that. But there was only one who could not be shut out of her
life and who, despite handsome inducement to do so, would not go out
of it.
The words overheard by Avis might mean much; and even more importance
he attached to Margery's answer. A woman who was doing wrong with
her eyes open, and suffering accordingly, was just the woman to have
replied so.
He worked himself into a fever and fell upon days of gloom darker
than the weather.
Accidents contrived to throw Shipley Farm much into his thoughts, for
illness fell upon it. An epidemic that was filling half the homes of
Brent with sickness reached the vale, and first Amelia was stricken
down, then her younger nephew. Both were seriously ill for a time
and the old woman's life became endangered. The parish nurse was too
fully occupied to assist them, and since neither could be moved, it
became a needful charity that their neighbours lent necessary aid.
Samuel Winter tended his brother, while a cousin--one of the nurses
from the Asylum not far distant--obtained leave to wait on Amelia.
The old woman survived, but was kept in her chamber for some weeks.
Then the nurse left again and Avis and Auna were glad to be of daily
service. Adam also began to recover. Margery, however, so far as
her husband knew, had not visited Shipley Farm during the progress of
this misfortune. He neither forbade her to do so, nor commented on
the fact that she kept away, though, according to his custom, he
weighed its significance and now felt glad and now read more into it
than appeared.
Of late he had sometimes struggled from his torment by the road of
preoccupation, and striven to busy himself for other people.
Opportunity did not lack, for the winter was long and hard, and there
came a day when, out of good-will alone, he set off to visit an old
man--a friend of his dead father--who lived at Totnes and was
reported in the extremity of need. Only the workhouse waited for
him, nor did Bullstone know any means to avert this doom, since the
ancient soul lived on after the world could offer no other place for
him; but Jacob departed to inquire if anything might be done, and it
was understood that he would stop at Brent on returning from Totnes,
sup with his father-in-law, who desired to speak with him, and return
at a late hour to Red House.
The day was overclouded from the north and snow promised to fall ere
long. Those who best understood the signs prophesied a stern spell,
for frost had hardened the ground and the temperature kept very low.
At noon the sun sometimes moistened the ice and thawed a little of
the mud; then the frost returned as the light failed. Fruit-growers
welcomed the cold to hold back bud; but farmers, now beginning to
expect their lambs, desired it not. As for Jacob, the weather braced
him physically. He set off, took train to Totnes and presently found
himself anticipated. The old man whom he had gone to cheer was
stricken with illness and already comatose. He did not recognise
Bullstone, and his visitor, glad rather than sorry that death had
come to the rescue, retraced his way, being informed that money could
not add to the dying man's comfort, or prolong his life.
Having heard that oranges were a valuable fruit against the epidemic,
he thought to take a dozen home and leave them at Shipley Farm. He
debated this problem in the train on the way back to Brent, and
argued long with himself as to the propriety of such a step. He
found himself uncertain, yet the idea had thrust into his mind and he
hesitated to dismiss it. He regretted having thought of it; then he
grew impatient with himself and determined to follow the impulse. He
told himself that, whatever value might be set upon his gift, his
motive was one of pure kindness. Then he pictured Winter receiving
the oranges and perhaps laughing in secret as he accepted them. Once
more he determined not to take them; but pursued the subject, in his
laborious fashion that ever magnified trifles, and again decided that
he would do so. It was typical of his mind, at this season, that
already it began to lose sense of proportion; and while he
exaggerated every incident involving the inhabitants of Shipley Farm,
upon other far more momentous matters, he decided instantly and not
seldom more swiftly than sound judgment had warranted. He was
impetuous when he might reasonably delay, and where no question
really existed and the problem's solution mattered nothing, he would
fret and exhaust himself.
On reaching Brent he entered the shop of Jeremy Huxam to make his
purchase. Jane was serving, but called Jeremy as his brother-in-law
appeared. Then she put the oranges into a bag, took the money for
them and left her husband with Jacob.
"I haven't forgot you are wishful to drop this," said the elder; "but
shops are not in my line as you know, and it's a pity, if you ask me,
that you can't stomach this work, especially as you've done so well
at it."
"I'm not going to throw up the sponge, be sure," promised Jeremy. "I
shall fight on till the right occupation offers. But, if the inner
nature turns and the gorge rises, then you may be sure you're not
doing the work you were planned to do. However, I shall come to it.
I always trust the future and I always trust my fellow-man. I've
been a square peg in a round hole all my life, Jacob; but after such
an apprenticeship, I feel tolerable sure that the next billet will be
the chosen one. Jane and I have shone through a fog ever since we
have been married you may say; but fog or not, we have shown our
light and done our best, and my mother is as certain as I am myself
that my gifts are only kept back."
"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.