CHAPTER XIV

END OF A HOME

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

CHAPTER I

CHORUS

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."

CHAPTER II

VERDICT

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.

The farther view and deeper estimate had to come. He was not near

reaching them yet, nor had he developed anything like the attitude

that Amelia Winter prophesied; but his brain now began to tune for a

new outlook. The answer that he must make to the destruction of all

his intentions and decisions was not so far propounded. He still

loitered in thought with himself, but as he approached the valley in

which his life had been passed, its tenderness and joyful, vernal

spirit unconsciously influenced him, distracting his mind away from

himself--not to the unconscious phenomena around him--but to the

supreme and solemn figure in the fantasy now at an end. He thought

of his wife. Whereupon a new phase opened in his mental processes

and he began to regard with naked eyes the edifice of the past.

Dwelling now upon the trial, he asked himself whether he still

persisted in his former convictions, or whether the united and

independent judgment of his fellow-men had proved their falsehood.

That he could even propose this question calmly was a fact sufficient

to indicate the answer. No such possibility would have entered his

mind, had he not been prepared to weigh it and ultimately accept it.

Yet he hesitated for the present to tell himself that he was

convinced; for that admission meant such stultification of self, such

absolute abnegation and retraction, such penitence, contrition and

atonement, that he doubted his power to attain to them. Only did it

seem possible to do so by keeping Margery and her sufferings in the

forefront of his mind; and that was not practicable until he decided

whether he would accept the decisions uttered against him, admit the

justice of the world's rebuke and proceed to create a new life on the

ground blasted, but also cleansed, by these fires.

Before he reached William Marydrew's house he began to plan the

future, as though he had the planning and need but indicate his

purpose to see life fall in with it!

Abased indeed he must stand; but his particular sort of pride was not

going to suffer eternally before a confession of error. So he told

himself and already half believed that the opinion of his fellow-men

would weigh little against the possibility of reconciliation. In

that case all future life should be devoted on his part to atoning

for the awful wrongs he had put upon her; and the censure of others,

at worst, must be thistledown to the stinging hail of his own

self-condemnation.

He saw all existence to be narrowed to this one ambition, and so

swiftly and inconsequently was his broken intelligence now moving,

that he had already swept the past away and pressed on to the future

and the tasks that there awaited him. Through these immense changes

his mind sped among the bluebells; then he walked in sight of the man

and woman talking at William's cottage door, and Amelia hastily

departed.

"There he cometh!" she said. "Pounding over the ground--boring along

like a bull--the hateful creature. And now he can bore into the

earth and bide there; for there won't be the face of a decent man,

woman, or child to welcome him no more."

"Yes, there will," replied Billy. "A man there is, if I'm still

worth to be called one, and a child there is, while his youngest

remains. Soften your heart, Amelia, for surely the conquerors can

afford to forgive."

She went off and in a few minutes Bullstone reached Mr. Marydrew. He

was full of his own thoughts and present ambitions; but he felt the

necessity to retrace the ground and, even in his present excitation,

could remember that he had reached a point which William could not

possibly understand until he had been informed of some of the stages

that had served to lift Jacob from the depths to the situation he now

occupied.

He came in, thankfully accepted the offer of a cup of tea and spoke

while William prepared it.

He had already reached the conclusion that he must confess absolute

error without excuse. For a moment he had considered the justice of

such a complete surrender, by arguing that the play of circumstances

were to a large extent responsible for his mistakes and their

culmination; but he felt, before the tremendous conclusion, that any

attempt to extenuate would be peddling and even dangerous. There was

truth in the fact that time and chance had played his nature cruel

tricks and it might be that others, after hearing the complete

admission he designed, would think of these things and advance some

few counters on his behalf; but he would not do it himself; he would

not take refuge under any sort of justification, or seek to modify

the awful thing he had accomplished. Thus the strange spectacle of a

man almost cheerful in his destruction appeared to William, and he

perceived at once the impatience with which Jacob recounted the

details, and the anxiety under which he laboured, to get the past

behind him as swiftly as possible and face the future. He was not

crushed by what had happened, because he was already clinging, heart

and soul, to what might happen. Horror of the thing done no longer

dominated him, for interest and concentration upon the things yet to

be done.

Thus he came to his ancient friend in a mood beyond Billy's

imagination, and as he talked volubly and proceeded from past facts

to future hopes, Mr. Marydrew perceived that an angry, old woman, in

some mysterious fashion, had known better than himself how these

disasters would react upon this man. For Jacob was concerned with

his conclusion, not the stages that had led to it. Already he was

forgetting them as though they had not existed.

"I knew I was doomed long before the end," said Bullstone. "I saw it

in their faces, and I'm a reasonable man, William, and can sit here

now and tell you that I wasn't obstinate and stiff-necked about it.

Before the judge talked to me and told me the truth--the blessed

truth, William, not the bitter truth. 'Blessed' I say, because it

opens the door of the future and doesn't close it for all time.

Before the judge poured his scalding words upon me, I knew they were

deserved. And knowing them deserved, they hurt different from what

he meant them to. That's the spirit that began to move the moment

after my first enormous astonishment to find I was wrong. And the

highest moment--the moment that threw all my years of agony to

confusion--was when she and him were able to show the words I heard

at Shipley were innocent and had to do with Samuel. From that point

the tide turned--and I saw all I'd done, and looked back at a

lunatic. And you see me now only hungering for the days and nights

to speed past, so that the madness that have overtook me may be

sunk--sunk and forgotten in the light of the sanity that's

coming--that's come. For I'm here in my right mind, William."

"Don't run on too fast, however, Jacob," warned the elder. "I'm very

thankful you can accept the truth, because, thank God, that leaves

the door open, as you say. But you must remember that there's a lot

more goes to this than for you to say you're sorry about it. You

must use your good sense and your new-found wits to see how it all

looked and still looks to the injured parties."

It seemed that Bullstone was doomed ever to move in the atmosphere of

the unreal. Unreal grief and imaginary disasters had ruined his

life; and now he sought to rebuild the wreck by his own achievements,

independently of the actual course of affairs, which must depend upon

others. His hopes might well prove as illusory as his vanished

fears. The man's mind was always in extremes.

Billy's warning cooled Bullstone.

"I know--I know," he answered. "I'm assuming nothing. My whole life

will be a long atonement to her--to lift myself from where I have

sunk, till I'm worthy to be forgiven. I see that. I ask none to

pardon till they can. How soon they can depends on me. I'm dealing

with better people than myself; so is it too much to hope, even in

this awful pass of my life, with destruction and grief around me,

that I may rise myself up to be forgiven by them?"

"Not too much to hope; but a darned sight too much to happen--for a

very long while, my dear," explained Mr. Marydrew. "You've done a

most fearful deed and those that have suffered from it must be given

a deuce of a lot of time before they can calm down and see how it all

fell out--how the Devil knew your character was prone to jealousy and

fooled you according. The first person for you to consider is your

wife, and if you can once rub it into her, fully and frankly, that

you be sure you'd done her an awful wrong and be set, while life's in

your body, to atone for it, then--presently--when she gets away from

the influence of her wonderful mother--perhaps.--For Margery knows

the good side of you as none else does, and she's slow to anger and

quick to forgive. You've got to lay the foundation of the new life,

and I hope to God, my dear, you'll soon find it grow; but the shape

it takes will depend a good deal on other folk so well as yourself."

"I must proclaim my wickedness and paint it so black, that the mercy

of man will intervene and lessen my blame of myself, if only for the

credit of human nature," said Bullstone.

"Man won't be much put about. 'Tis the mercy of woman be going to be

most use to you," answered Billy. "You must court that. After all,

jealousy be a left-handed compliment to them; and they can always

forgive that without much trouble--up to a point. Of course you went

far beyond that point, however, because the Devil got in you, and

turned your eyes crooked, and made life look like a nightmare, same

as it do if you see yourself in a spoon. You'll want the patience of

Job to endure the next six months or so; but other men have come

through and why not you?"

"I know that human nature don't forgive such cruelty as mine very

easy. Awful cruel I have been--I, that thought I was made of mercy,

William. So life surprises us--so we shock ourselves quite as much

as we shock our neighbours. But I keep saying, 'Time's not ended:

there's still time.'"

They talked for an hour, then Jacob returned home, to find Avis and

Peter. They welcomed him awkwardly, as though he had been a

stranger; but that had been their attitude to him of late. Auna had

waited for him outside and brought him home. They had kissed but

said little as yet. He spoke to his son and elder daughter that

night after supper, when George Middleweek, the new kennel-man, had

departed and Auna was gone to bed. He owned his errors frankly, as

though he were a repentant child confessing to grown-up people. He

told them of the evil that he had done, and how he prayed God and man

to pardon him. With the microscopic vision of youth, they looked at

their father while he spoke. They observed he was very haggard, that

he had not shaved and that one of his eyes was shot with blood.

"You're old enough to understand," he said. "I've done a very

mistaken, terrible thing and wronged your dear mother as never a

good, noble woman was wronged before. There aren't words to say how

wicked I've been--nor yet how sorry I am. You must all be patient

with me, Peter, and try to forgive me if you can."

They looked at him silent and round-eyed. His appeal embarrassed

them and they knew not what to say to him.

"Mother's won, then?" asked Avis, screwing up her courage to the

question.

"By the blessing of God she has, Avis."

Uneasily conscious that a man ought not so to speak to his children,

they stole away presently, and then breathed again.

There was no pity in them. They only gloried in their father's

defeat, as they knew that others would.

"It's knocked the stuffing out of him," said Peter.

"So it has. I hope mother's all right," answered his sister.

"You bet she's all right: she's won. And grandmother and grandfather

and Mr. Winter's all right too," promised Peter.

From his false dawn of hope Jacob sank presently into lethargy and

reaction. He recalled William Marydrew's speeches for comfort, but

found that more than comfort was in them. With night and silence he

lay awake reflecting on his wife. Everything depended upon her, not

upon him. Could her merciful spirit, even under this awful

provocation, become permanently ruthless? He was already fighting

fiercely for the rags of his future, in hope to find decent covering

among them. The court, the jury, the adverse verdict, the minatory

judge were sunk into shadowlands, that mattered less than a bad dream.

CHAPTER III

UTILITY

A longing to annihilate time--to crush it, absorb it, put it behind

him--dominated Jacob from the hour of his return. He had been for

three days from home and found that nothing specially demanded his

attention, save letters which Peter could not write. All went

smoothly with his business and he was free to concentrate on the

greater matter of his life. He told himself that propitiation would

be demanded by many. His wife came first, but he felt that uncertain

periods of time must be suffered before he could dare to approach

her. With Adam Winter, however, his own feverish desire to begin his

task assured Jacob that there need be no delay. To put himself right

with this wronged man was the thing nearest to his hand, and two days

after returning home, he sought out Adam at Shipley.

It chanced that, as he approached the farm, Samuel emerged from a

barn. Seeing Bullstone, he grew very red, his jaw worked, and he

mopped and mowed like a monkey, but did not speak. The visitor saw

hate in his face and rage uncontrolled by reason. Sammy spat on the

ground and glowered and watched his enemy pass to the door. Then,

having knocked, Jacob looked around, with an instinct to keep his eye

on the weak-minded man. But Adam's brother had already departed.

Amelia Winter answered his call and her face seemed to grow smaller

when she looked upon him. She shrank back and her bosom rose and she

became pale. She waited for him to speak.

"Good morning, Miss Winter," he said. "I'm very wishful to see your

nephew if you will tell me where I am likely to find him."

She did not answer, but left Jacob and went into the house-place.

There he heard the murmur of voices, and then Adam came down the

stone-paved passage. He was in his working clothes.

"I should think it a great favour if you would let me speak to you

for a few minutes," said Bullstone. "I've no right to come before

you, but none the less venture to do it."

Adam looked at him without animation or emotion. Only a weary

indifference marked his face and echoed in his voice. He was not

thinking of Jacob, but his aunt. Amelia had told him that Bullstone

would quickly come to grovel. He had much doubted this, but made up

his mind to listen if Jacob did seek him.

"If you'll step in here," he said, and opened a door on the left of

the entrance.

Jacob went in before him, took off his hat and sat down on a chair by

the empty hearth. It was the parlour of Shipley and seldom used.

Adam Winter, with his hands in his pockets, walked to the window and

stood looking out of it.

"Words are poor things before this business," began Bullstone, "and I

won't keep you, or waste your time with many. I've wasted enough of

your time, and if you could tell me what that waste stood for in

figures, I'd be thankful to make it up to you. I'm only here now to

express my abiding sorrow and grief at what I've done, and

acknowledge how basely I have wronged you. You know I've wronged

you, of course--so does the rest of the world; but you didn't yet

know that I know it. I want you to understand that I accept the

judgment and all that was said against me, because I deserved every

word of it. I've done terrible evil, and the fag end of my life I

shall spend in trying to make amends, so far as it lies in my power.

After my poor wife, you are the one who has got most cause to hate me

and most cause to demand from me the utmost atonement I can make.

But first I ask you, as a good Christian, called to suffer untold

trouble through no fault of your own, to pardon those who have

trespassed against you. I beg you to forgive me, Adam Winter, and

tell me that you can. That's all for the minute."

Winter listened and nodded his head once or twice. He was listless

and melancholy. When he spoke he might have been the worsted man,

for his voice had none of the ring and conviction of the other's.

"I forgive you, Jacob Bullstone. That's easy enough. And since you

are here, I'll speak too, because some inner things didn't come out

at the trial. I want you to know that I never heard tell you were a

jealous man. Your wife, no doubt, had cause to know it; but if she

ever mentioned the fact to anybody, which is little likely, it wasn't

to me. Decent partners hide each other's faults because it's seemly

they should, and Mrs. Bullstone wasn't more likely to hint at a soft

spot in you than, I suppose, you would have been to whisper any

weakness you might have found in her. So I knew nothing, and I came

into this horror as innocent as my sheep-dog; and if I'd dreamed how

it was, I'd have left Shipley years and years ago, at any cost to

myself and my family."

"I believe it," answered Jacob. "I understand the manner of man you

are now, and the false light that's blinded me these many years is

out. And if I could take your sufferings off your shoulders and

endure them for you, thankfully I'd do it. I want to be the only one

to suffer now--the only one to carry this burden."

"Yes, yes--no doubt. The past is past, and if the past didn't always

flow, like a river, into the present and future, life would be as

easy for us as for the beasts, that only know the present. Good-bye.

God help you and all of us."

He indicated that the interview was done; but Jacob did not move. He

only blundered on, uttering promises and hopes for the future which,

to Adam Winter, sounded inconceivably vain.

"And that," said Jacob at last, "brings me to my wife."

"Please don't talk about her to me," interrupted the other. "Can't

you see----?"

"I see nothing," answered Bullstone. "But I feel--I feel everything.

The past is past, as you say, and past praying for; but there's the

future. I thought perhaps you might--I can't go before her--not for

many, many days. But you----"

"Me! Good God, man, what are you made of? Me! Don't you

understand? But try--try to understand. Try to understand that

other men can feel as much as you do and suffer as much. What you've

done don't end with yourself and your troubles; what you've done

never will end at all in some directions. It's altered the very

stuff of life for a score of people. Poison be poison, and we have

each got to fight it in our own way. I shall never speak to Mrs.

Bullstone again as long as I live--nor she to me. That goes without

speech surely? Haven't you seen even so far? Do you suppose

nobody's got to go on living and smarting but you?"

It was Winter who had now grown animated and shown a flash of emotion

at Jacob's self-absorbed attitude; while Bullstone sank into greater

restraint before this larger vision.

"Thank you," he said, rising. "You put me right. My head's in a

whirl. I only felt a great longing come over me. But I dare say

it's all too late. I won't trouble you no more. Time will show what

I feel to you."

"Hold in then," advised the other, his passing fire dead. "Hold in

and give time a chance. You can't do time's work, but you may easily

undo it. And if time can't serve you, I don't see what can, always

excepting your Maker. But lie low--don't go thrusting forward, just

because you've got a longing to get right with people. No doubt you

have; but things--there--who am I to preach to you? Leave it, leave

it and be gone."

They parted and Jacob, walking on the Brent road to wait for Auna,

who had gone that day to the post-office, pondered the new standpoint

set before him. He perceived that he had been shameless, and once

more stood under correction from the man he had wronged. Adam Winter

was right. He must 'hold in.' The storm had yet to burst--the storm

of public opinion. He knew not where it might drive him. He had

been so eager to start upon the great business of building again that

he overlooked the extent of the ruins. His spirit fainted for a

little while; and then he turned to think upon Margery and consider

her present attitude. Did she recognise the possibility of any

reparation? He did not know, yet believed that she presently might.

But clearly it was not in his power to anticipate time. He must be

patient and endure and see days, weeks, months drag interminably.

He perceived how the disaster had stricken and changed Winter--how

deeply it had tinctured his thought and bred bitterness in a man

hitherto devoid of bitterness. Winter was right to be impatient with

him. He had greatly erred to approach Winter so soon. He saw that

restraint was called for, and restraint had always been easy to him

until now. He, too, was changed, and no doubt everybody who had

endured this violence was also changed, if only for a season. Winter

had said that things must always be different for ever. That meant

that his evil action would actually leave an impress on character--on

many characters.

He wished greatly that his wife were alone, to pursue the future in

temporary isolation. Then, with the children to go and come.... But

she was not alone and therein he began to see his greatest danger.

She would never be alone, and the influences under which she dwelt

would be directed against her own nature and qualities, for she was

not strong enough, physically or mentally, to oppose her mother. She

never had been, even when, as sometimes happened, the will existed to

oppose her.

Jacob met Auna speeding homeward and she had not changed. Her

caresses and smiles greatly heartened him; but she was timid and

clearly under influence. He waited for her to speak of her mother,

but she did not.

"I hope mother is pretty well again, Auna?" he asked as they neared

home, but Auna shook her head resolutely.

"Grandmother made me promise not to speak of mother. She said you

wouldn't wish it; and I did promise, father."

"Then you must keep your promise," he answered. "I've done terrible

things, Auna, but I'm punished for doing them, and I'm very sorry for

doing them, and I hope in time everybody will forgive me."

"I forgive you," she said, "and I never, never will go away from you,

so long as you want me."

She held his hand tightly and he guessed that the future had been

considered.

"Home is home," he told her, and something in the phrase, striking

upon thoughts which were hidden from her father, but belonged to her

recent experiences, made the child begin to cry. He guessed that she

knew of decisions as yet concealed from him, and that she cried

rather for him than herself.

"Cheer up," he said. "There's all the future to try and put things

right in, Auna. And you to help me--such a helpful treasure is to me

always."

"Grandmother," she sobbed, and Jacob began to comprehend. He was

still untutored and in no mood for delay. He devoted a great part of

that night to writing to Mrs. Huxam, and next day sent a long letter

to her by Avis. It was a letter into which he poured the full flood

of his contrition. He confessed his error and the horrible

ingredient of character that had vitiated life for him and Margery.

He declared himself healed and purified, and implored that his wife's

parents, from their Christian standpoint, would be merciful to the

weak and not bar the door to a reconciliation in the future. He

humiliated himself and felt no restraining pride to control his

abasement. Finally he invited the Huxams to define the situation,

that he might know if the time to come held any hope, and he

explained that he left himself entirely in his wife's hands.

Anything that she might direct and desire he would perform; he

suggested leaving Red House for a time and absenting himself

indefinitely should Margery wish to return home. He explained that

the empty house at Huntingdon Warren was now rented by him, and that

he would be very willing to go there at once and remain there for

some months if the proposition commended itself to them. Thus he

sought to be even with time by allowing Margery to plan it. He erred

every way, but did no harm, because Avis brought his letter back

unopened in the evening.

"Grandmother says I'm to tell you she don't want any letters from

you, father," she said.

He took his bulky packet.

"And is that all she said?" he asked.

"That's all."

"Did you see your mother, Avis?"

"Yes, I did. She's not well, and I'm not to say anything about her."

"This letter was as much for your grandfather as your grandmother,"

explained Jacob; "and if she won't read it, then he must."

"He won't read it if she tells him not to," answered Avis. "He's

against you, same as everybody else is against you, father."

Jacob did not argue upon the subject, but after two days of silence,

during which no communication or message reached him, he went into

Brent and entered the post-office.

Barlow Huxam was behind the counter and he grew red and puffed his

cheeks when he saw Jacob.

"This is very inconvenient," he said, "I wish you wouldn't come here.

Nothing can be gained--nothing whatever."

"I didn't want to come; but I wrote to Mrs. Huxam--a very vital

letter which I imagined she would show to you. All she did was to

return it to me unopened. That is senseless, because the position

must be defined. We must know where we stand."

Barlow considered.

"It is defined," he answered. "Nothing could be more definite and we

know where we stand very well. You heard with your ears I

suppose--same as everybody else in court. Your case broke down and

you became a laughing-stock to all honest men, and the judge summed

up against you and told you the fearful truth about yourself, to

which your own nature had long made you a stranger. The case was

dismissed and you were left to pay the costs. That's all there is to

it, Jacob Bullstone, and I suppose you don't want me or anybody else

to tell you what follows."

"That's exactly what I do want you to tell me; and that you might be

the better able to tell me, I wrote this letter, explaining how I

stand to you and your wife and my wife. I have a right to ask you to

read it, Mr. Huxam."

"Not at all," answered the other. "I don't grant you have any right

to ask anything."

Judith entered the shop at this moment, perceived the men were

talking and the woman in the postal department was listening.

"If you'll come through into the private room, Mr. Bullstone," she

said, "it will be better."

She lifted a bridge in the counter and he, winning hope from her

peaceful tone, followed into a room behind. Barlow accompanied them

and explained to his wife.

"He says he's in his right we read his letter, and I deny it. He has

no rights."

"Since he's forced himself here," she said in her quiet, level voice,

"he can listen, and then he can go. But speak he shall not to me.

'Rights!' What rights has a man who puts his wife away from him on a

foul lie? What rights has a man who breaks up his home and drives

his family to fly from him for their salvation? Let him understand

this: he doesn't exist for us any more. We don't know him and don't

dirty our lips, or our thoughts, with his name. Never--never, so

long as any of us live. We're Christians here, and we have forgiven

the awful wrong done against us, because well we know that our Maker

called us to suffer it. And I see clear enough now why. But that's

our affair, and if we endure evil that good may come, that's no

reason why we should suffer the evil made flesh in the shape of this

man. Far from it. We've forgiven before our God; but before our God

also, we stand here and say we'll have no more truck with the source

of our sufferings and shame. For us he is a nameless terror to fly

from, as we fly from his master, the Devil."

"Is that forgiveness?" asked Bullstone.

"It has nothing to do with forgiveness. You are forgiven; but what

comes after is our duty to our Creator, who orders us to avoid evil

and all those damned to ever-lasting fire."

"Are you speaking for yourself alone?" he asked.

"No. I'm speaking for my husband and family--my children and my

grandchildren. By the will of God a lost soul, such as you are, can

be suffered to breed saved souls. That's a mystery; but so it

happens. And when your children come of age, they'll be faced with

their duty; and they'll see it very clear indeed. Now I'll ask you

to go; and it will be better, when you have dealings with the

post-office, to send a messenger and never come again yourself so

long as we remain here."

She spoke slowly and without emotion. Jacob looked at his

father-in-law.

"And do you say ditto to this devilish speech?" he asked.

"Ditto to every word of it," answered Barlow. "And so would any man

who sees his wronged child wilting like a flower, and marks her

bitter sufferings and ruined home and broken heart. And----"

"That's enough," interrupted Mrs. Huxam. "That's nothing to him.

Tell him to go."

Jacob Bullstone did not speak and left the post-office immediately.

He began to grasp the situation at last, and surveyed his futile

ambitions since the trial.

"Time won't be balked," he thought. "I was all wrong and stand worse

off than when I started."

He determined on huge patience and felt where the fight must lie.

Nothing was clear and nothing could be clear, until he saw his wife,

face to face, without witnesses. Only a far future might open any

such opportunity, even if she allowed him to take it when it came.

His course seemed evident to him. He must contrive through some

secret channel to learn what his wife was thinking and planning. But

he doubted not that, unlike himself, her mind was still in flux and

no anodyne deadening her resentment. Forgiveness, in any other than

a religious sense, must be vain for many days.

He leapt from one extreme to the other, and having sought an

understanding instantly, out of his instinctive rage for action, now

told himself that years must pass before any light could be hoped.

For a full twelve months he vowed to himself that he would not raise

a finger. Half his savings had been swallowed up by the trial at

law. He dwelt on the necessity for hard work and increase of

business, to make good this serious loss. Work had proved a panacea

on many occasions of past tribulation; work had helped time to

stretch a gulf between former troubles and himself. He must fall

back upon work now.

His punishment had begun and he prepared to welcome it, still

trusting time to bring some Indian summer for his later days. He

admitted the justice of long-drawn retribution. It was right that an

extended vengeance should be required. He welcomed it and bent his

spirit to endure it, thus assuming a temporary pose and attitude

which it was impossible that his character could sustain.

CHAPTER IV

AUNA TRIES

Margery Bullstone had never poured herself out and lost her stream in

the river of her husband, after the fashion of certain devoted wives.

She had loved him truly, generously, until time and chance and the

wear and attrition of dissimilar natures fretted the love thin; but

her own individuality persisted always, being maintained by the close

touch which she kept with its sources: her parents and her old home.

Without that forcible influence she might have merged more completely

in Jacob and his interests; but her attitude to her mother had ever

been one of great respect and reverence, and she implanted the same

in her children, as they came to years of understanding. A different

husband--one who saw life nearer her own vision--had, perhaps, won

her completely to the diminishing of other and earlier influences;

but Bullstone failed in this by his own limitations and oppositions;

therefore when the culmination came and his deep-rooted sickness

overthrew her home, Margery left Red House thankfully and regarded

her liberty with relief.

She was sustained in this emotion until after the excitement of the

trial, and everything, during the months before that event,

contributed to support her spirit; but only a false activity is that

of those who feed upon their wrongs; and when all was over and the

business of her future life had to be faced, there came gusts of

reaction to Margery and a realisation,--slow, fitful, painful--of the

change for the worse. She caught herself looking back, and the

alterations in her mental and physical life bore fruit. She was as

one suddenly widowed; but the inevitability brought by death and the

sense of a common lot was not here to help her endure the bewildering

dislocation and destruction. All that she had made was gone, and she

was faced with the necessity to build up a new existence, differing

in every condition from the old. Even peace was denied her. She

could not think for herself, for every half-spoken thought was taken

out of her lips and developed by her mother. She suffered

domination, but found it a sorry substitute for her old independence.

She could not be a child again. Only her own children were left, and

from them, also, a new mind was demanded. But they were going on

with their lives: her life had stopped, and none at present guessed

the psychological significance of this sudden hiatus in Margery's

existence.

She felt ill when she returned from London with her father, and

having participated in her triumph, slowly sickened at the aspect of

the future now presented and the convulsion created by dropping from

a full life into an empty one. Her old physical weakness increased.

A change was urged upon her by the village doctor, who had always

attended her, and she went to stay with her uncle, Lawrence

Pulleyblank, at Plymouth. But associations caused her to suffer so

acutely here, that it was clear nothing could be gained by present

sojourn in her uncle's house. She came back to Brent, and then fell

the first shadow of implicit antagonisms between herself and her

mother. For Judith contrived that Margery should not see her

children alone upon their constant visits; while she sought

opportunity to do so. Mrs. Huxam indeed felt little need to insist

upon the condition, for she had no reason to doubt of her daughter's

attitude. It was only a measure of precaution, and she had instilled

the need for silence upon all of them. At present she detected no

premonition of mental weakness in Margery and did not anticipate it.

But her daughter's health was bad; she ate too little, shirked

exercise and remained melancholy, listless and indifferent. Judith

held her state easy to understand, and had enough imagination to

grant that it must be some time before Margery would regain nerve,

courage and peace of mind; but that the woman, now idle and

incapacitated, was looking back and dwelling in the past, Mrs. Huxam,

though she might have granted, would not have regarded as likely.

The past could offer no healing drought for Margery. She found easy

present occupation, therefore, drew her daughter into the shop

sometimes and contrived short errands for her. Then Barlow pointed

out that to use Margery as though she were a child again was not

seemly.

To her father, Jacob's wife talked in a way she would not have spoken

before her mother. Indeed her rare moments of animation belonged to

him, and he was glad to let her speak of the past and forget the

future in so doing. She had aged and had grown indifferent to her

appearance; but the old, good days could still charm her into

forgetfulness, though from the pleasant memories, return to her new

life always brought reaction. Her vitality grew less as her

instinctive desire for a different environment increased.

It was now understood that Jacob Bullstone's name should not be

spoken, and his children were directed neither to mention their

father, when they came to the post-office, nor convey any information

concerning their mother to Red House. Jacob accepted this

arrangement, while Margery was also constrained to do so, since she

did not see her children alone. John Henry abstained from Red House

after his parents parted, but he saw his mother weekly and, of

course, declared himself upon her side.

"And so is every one else," he told his grandmother; "and I feel

shame for the first time in my life--shame to know I'm my father's

son."

This attitude he openly confessed and it was not hidden from

Bullstone.

In Barlow Huxam's presence Margery sometimes allowed herself to speak

of her husband. He flinched on the first occasion; but suffered it

afterwards, perceiving that she won some twilight satisfaction from

analysing the reason for her misfortune.

The new house rose rapidly and his daughter often accompanied the

postmaster to see progress on summer evenings, when the day's work

had ended and the labourers were gone.

At such times she indicated to him a little of the chaos of her

present days and their lack of everything that had made life worthy

to be lived.

"I was often sorry for myself," she said on one occasion, while they

had sat to rest on a pile of red tiles for the new roof. "Sorry I

was; yet now looking back, father, I can see that, for all its frets,

I was leading a woman's full, bustling, busy life. Often it was good

work, and the need to be planning and looking forward kept me hearty

and strong. And now--all gone, and me turned so weak that I'm no

more use to anybody."

He bade her fasten upon the future.

"You did your duty in all things, and you need feel no remorse about

one hour of your married life," he said. "That's ended for no fault

of yours, but through the disaster of marrying a dangerous madman--to

call him no worse. Such lunatic men have often cut the throats of

their innocent wives; but he done otherwise, and if he'd cut his own,

he might have escaped a good deal that lies before him; and so might

you. You must steadfastly fix before your mind that he has wronged

you in the awfulest way a man can wrong a good wife; and you must

also feel that, but for the mercy of God, worse things might well

have happened to you. Put him out of your thoughts. Banish him as

you would the vision of sin, Margery."

"Easy to say and easy to do sometimes; but not always," she answered.

"The difficulties that you and mother think are curing themselves

have hardly begun for me; because time works both ways. It lessens

your pain; but it throws a different light on the sources of your

pain. Some women would never lose sight of the wrong and I haven't

yet; but I'm weaker than a good many. You want to be strong, like

mother, to hate for ever, and I ban't built to do it."

"You must seek strength from your mother then," he answered. "She's

got strength for us all, and she hates evil unsleepingly, because her

mind is built on faith and justice and she looks out of eyes that

never grow dim."

"Yes, I know. I love her. In some of my moods I see how grand she

is; and in others I slink away, because, after all, there is such a

thing as mercy. I've got time to think, and think nowadays as never

I had before. There wasn't time to think in my married life, nor yet

leisure to weigh things and stand outside them. I was in it all, and

you can't weigh things if you are part of the reason why they happen.

Now--torn away, or drove away--I can see Jacob better. He knew so

little about real life and never seemed to want to know about it. I

felt that Avis and John Henry had more sense of character and judged

people truer than he could. He lived a very small life for choice,

and it made him narrow and fostered this awful thing in him, till it

grew up and wrecked him. He loved nature, but nature couldn't keep

his mind sweet for long. And justice sometimes makes me see that

what all looked such moonshine in the court, must have looked

horribly real to him--before he rose and struck me."

"Because he was insane on that one subject and bent everything to

that vile purpose."

"There it is!" she answered. "That's the point. If he was insane,

as you say, then where do we stand? If those that are near and dear

to us turned lepers to-morrow, should we fly from them? I feel a

great deal has to be thought and said on that view, father; but I

know nothing will come of it with mother, because she never changes.

To her, madness is one thing and wickedness another; but grant

madness, then there's no wickedness."

Mr. Huxam was a little startled before this attitude; for Margery had

never yet indicated weakening, and these words clearly pointed in

that direction.

"You're on dangerous ground and had better not pursue it," he

answered. "We know where we stand, and when I said the man was a

lunatic, I meant no more than a figure of speech. All sin may be

madness seen one way; but we don't treat all sinners as madmen, else

there'd be more ready to be locked up than we could find

fellow-creatures to guard them. Your mother was right there--as

usual. Forgive him as a Christian must; but don't keep twisting back

to him in your mind. He's gone for ever; and if I thought, even in

your dreams, that you could feel like going back to him, Margery, I

should take a very grave view of such a fault."

"No, I wouldn't go back to him--any more than he could come back to

me. For why should we think, because we won against him, that we've

convinced him he was wrong?"

Mr. Huxam considered.

"We keep this subject from you, because our feeling is that it's very

indecent and unbecoming and unworthy of the family to mention it," he

answered, "but, since we're on it, through no choice of mine, my

child, I must tell you once for all the latest facts. I'll ask you

to keep what I'm going to say to yourself, for your mother might

blame me to mention it; but men--even madmen--will talk, and you

can't always command them to be silent, or refuse to hear what they

desire to tell you. And Jacob Bullstone, in the ear of his old

friend, William Marydrew, has acknowledged that he was wrong in every

particular. He wrote after the trial--a letter which he first sent

to your mother and then brought to the shop himself; and your mother

saw him with me--for the last time--and refused to read the letter.

I won't say I wouldn't have read it; but that's only to admit I

haven't got the strength to judge right in a crisis like she has.

But there's no doubt that in that letter he said things we might, as

Christians, have been glad to hear--for his own soul's sake."

"Mother was right, however," declared Margery, "and whether he ever

could endure to see me, or whether he could not, it's very certain I

must be myself in that matter. I hope to God he knows he was wrong

and is convinced of it, but go back to him--I couldn't now; but--oh,

I'm weak as well as strong. Jacob wasn't all, father. A husband

isn't a home. I loved such a lot of little things. Being denied

pleasure away, I made my first and dearest pleasure there, and I did

so care for plants and trees and childish things. And the river and

the hills--to me all such like meant a lot. The garden was work and

play both. If smoothed the harsh edges. I made it and I made my

children altogether. And the river and the hills meant love--for I

loved them; and they helped me to love Jacob when I felt I never

should again; because they brought back the old Jacob I fell in love

with. All this sounds silly to you; but twenty years is a long

time--the cream of my life--the greatest part of it for a woman, when

she's reigning in her home and bringing her children into the world.

Red House means more than I can say--everything--good and bad alike.

To me it's like the shop to you--life. You know where to put your

hand on everything. You could serve blindfold. And, if I went back

to-day, I could shut my eyes and go to the flowers in the garden and

know which were out and which were dead and which were in bud.

And--but--no, no, no! It all means nothing now. I couldn't go

back--never--never."

He soothed her, but felt considerable alarm himself before these

confidences. For if Margery entertained such thoughts now--removed

from her wrongs by only a few months--how might she regard the

situation in a year, or two years? That she should even assert that

she could not go back, argued most unexpected weakness in Mr. Huxam's

opinion, for when a woman was at the trouble to say she would not do

a thing, that generally signified the action was by no means ruled

out for her.

The stupendous thought of an ultimate condonation made him giddy--not

before the spectacle of a forgiving Margery, but at the vision of

Mrs. Huxam and the Everlasting.

He alluded to the latter.

"The Lord thy God is a jealous God--remember that, my child, when any

shadow of regret for the past steals into your mind. It's time you

braced yourself, Margery. I think you might begin working here in

the new garden."

But she shook her head.

"Not yet," she said. "I'm not strong enough in mind or body yet.

Flowers would hurt too much, father. I'm going to love your new

house, and I'm going to live in it along with you; but flowers won't

die. There's some flowers never can die for me, though they withered

away a good few years ago. I shall always see them and smell them

and hear the honey bees humming in 'em. But there are some I'll

never touch no more."

She was worn out after this conversation and Barlow hesitated long

upon the propriety of discussing the matter with Judith; but he

postponed any warning in that quarter. Margery had some return of

her nervous weakness and was very silent for many days; while both

parents exercised patience and Mrs. Huxam began to consider the

desirability of definite steps. For her daughter's health and the

doctor's anxiety pointed to the need of distraction and change.

Judith busied herself to learn Margery's view, but could win no

expression or desire from her respecting her future. Then she went

to Plymouth to consult her brother, Lawrence. It occurred to her

that his niece might perhaps make her permanent abode with the old

man and find a sphere of usefulness in ministering to him.

Thus it fell out that, for once, Margery did win opportunity for a

long conversation with a child; and it happened to be the one child

who regarded no ground as forbidden, and rejoiced at the chance to

say things with which her young heart was full.

Auna came and brought a large can full of the famous goats' milk; nor

had her grandfather the heart to prevent her from carrying it to her

mother, though his conscience reproached him afterwards.

To Margery came Auna and brightened at the unexpected freedom, while

her mother drank at the child's command and shut her eyes that the

familiar flavour of the milk might bring a thousand pictures to her

mind. The visions began happily. Then they ended in darkness--on a

February day, when seeking the goats, she had met with her husband

hidden on the hill. For thus it was with all her memories; they were

prone to break off in a sorrow. Every train of thought ran into

grief--and stopped there; and she told herself that this must be

surely so, since life itself had now run into grief and stopped. She

knew well enough, at the bottom of her heart, that she could never

begin again and start a new existence. Some women might have been

strong enough to do so. Pride might have driven many to build up a

new fabric; some, out of natural energy, physical strength and

fulness of life, might have survived; but she could not. Nothing

that waited for her would be of a zest to make like worth living; and

yet she spoke the truth when she told her father that she would not

return to Red House. That she firmly believed; nor could she

conceive of any circumstance to change the determination.

Auna struck a new note on the occasion of this visit and she was very

frank and clear about it.

"There's always a terrible lot in me I can't say afore grandmother,"

she declared; "and I don't know whether it's right, or whether it's

wicked, mother; but I'm never going to stop loving father and I won't

pretend different. Nobody knows how wicked he's been better than

poor father does, and his sins properly choke him when he's along

with me sometimes. And----"

"Don't you talk about father, Auna. That's forbid and you know it.

We've all forgiven each other and you'll understand better some day."

"But he doesn't understand you've forgiven him. Nobody's told him

you have. But I shall, now you've said it. And I'm just going to be

fifteen year old and I do understand. Father thought you'd done

something wicked and that was wicked of him, because he ought to have

known very well you couldn't do nothing wicked. But he thought you

had so cruel certain, that it all had to be tried by a judge. And

then father found out he'd thought wrong; and now his hair be turning

grey about it and he can't lift up his head from looking at the

ground. And if he knew how to show more sorrow than he does show, he

would--I know he would."

"Leave him, Auna. But be sure to tell him I've forgiven him. And

say I'm going to drink the milk. And now talk about something

different. I bid you, Auna."

"Very well, then, dear mother," said the girl. "Peter be going to

the veterinary surgeon to Exeter for six months soon now, to learn

all about the sicknesses that come over dogs; and then father says

he'll know everything there is to the dogs, and more than he does

himself. Though that Peter never will. And Avis--Robert's terrible

set on marrying her, and he's coming to ax father if he may do so

this very night. But that's a secret hidden from father. And

father----"

The child could not keep her father off her tongue.

"Tell me about the dogs and the river and the garden," said Margery.

Auna collected her thoughts.

"The dogs are very well indeed and a lot of new puppies, and 'The

Lord of Red House' be the father of them; and Peter says their paws

promise them to be grand dogs. And Mr. Middleweek, the new man since

Mr. Gill went, is very different from him. He never whines and never

says the work's killing him, nor cusses the goats, nor anything like

that. And Peter says he's very clever with the dogs, but won't come

to no good in the next world, because he haven't found God. But

Peter says that what Mr. Middleweek does about the next world is his

own business, and he won't quarrel with him as long as he does so

clever what he's got to do in this world."

"Peter's a lot with the dogs now?" asked Margery, and her daughter

answered that he was.

"And the river's lovelier than ever this year," she ran

on--"especially the little island we call 'Mother's Island,' where

Avis found that white bluebell. And it came up again this year. And

your own garden, mother, is a proper show of flowers. And the roots

you planted in the fall have come up, all but one or two. And the

red peony seemed to know you wasn't going to be there and he haven't

took the trouble to flower at all this year."

She ran on and Margery listened, saying very little but smiling once

or twice.

She asked a few questions about trifles that interested her and Auna

answered or promised to learn the answers.

Then they joined Mr. Huxam in his parlour behind the shop and took

tea together. Auna discussed Jeremy and Jane. She was very

interested in their two infant boys and much cast down because the

second proved to be delicate.

Margery remembered a book or two and Auna promised to bring them, but

Barlow forbade it.

"Not at present," he said. "That would be to create a doubtful

precedent. We'd better wait for anything like that, unless the book

was yours before you married."

Her grandfather was acutely conscious of the difficulties attending

the situation of Auna. Margery's other children continued to be

entirely identified with her, and Judith felt satisfied that soon

enough they would have broken with the evil influence that begot

them; but Auna had developed a decision that remained to be dealt

with. She came and went, and not seldom mentioned her father from

force of habit, only to be corrected for so doing. Her grandmother

already perceived a problem here, but trusted herself to solve it.

When Mr. Huxam had gone and they were alone again, the girl returned

to her father.

"I know I mustn't name him to grandfather and grandmother, but just

once more you'll let me, mother. Say just once."

"What's the use, child? You must learn to understand that father's

gone out of my life. He hasn't gone out of yours. He's part of

yours, and I'm glad you love him, because there's only you to do that

now. But grandmother's quite right to ask you not to mention father

any more here."

"Why?" asked Auna. "Father doesn't tell me not to talk about you.

He loves me to do it."

"Anyway you'll do what you're told to do here, I know."

"Very well then--this is the last--last time I'll name him. And if

he ever slips out again, it will be an accident, mother. But--the

last time, mind--but, don't you think just once--just once, for a

little moment, you could see him? You've got such a lot of time on

your hands now and you might take a walk and just----"

"Did he ask you to ask me, Auna?"

"Not exactly asked me. He said it would be a great blessing and a

sign he was forgiven if you could let him speak to you but once. And

I said so it would; and I told him that first time I got a chance,

behind grandmother's back, I'd ask you. And oh, mother, why not?"

"For countless reasons, Auna. You'll tell him I've forgiven him.

We've long passed the forgiving stage here. Everybody has forgiven

father. And what more is there?"

"There's father."

"I mustn't do it. I don't want to do it, Auna. You can't understand

yet, but you will when you're older. He will understand."

"You don't want to see father?"

"No, no, no--I don't want to see him again. I've suffered enough."

Auna was very quiet for some time.

"You wouldn't like to come and see your lovely garden, if father

promised to go up to Huntingdon for the day?" she asked. "Surely,

mother, you'd like to see the dogs and your garden?"

"It's not my garden any more. I've got no garden. I've got nothing

but you and Avis and the boys."

Auna tried again.

"How sorry must he feel, before you can forgive him enough to see

him?" she asked.

"I have forgiven him. I wish I could make your little mind grasp it,

Auna. I know father better than you do. I know how sorry he is; but

sorrow can't undo what's done. Nothing could be gained if I saw

father, and a great deal must be lost. There are others to think of.

We are all in God's Hands. Now you ought to be trotting home."

"God's Hands are cold comfort if you won't see father," murmured the

child. "I don't much like what I hear about God from Mr. Middleweek."

Margery reproved her.

"If you want to hear about God, go to your grandmother," she said,

"and never listen to anybody else. You ought to know that well

enough, Auna."

"I shall always listen to father whenever he talks to me," answered

the girl. "And I've told father that I well know God's forgiven him."

She left soon afterwards, very quietly and much depressed, while

Margery speculated on the situation and became aware that, against

the forces of right and justice and religion, destined to stand

between her husband and herself for the remainder of their lives,

there would be opposed a girl's will. She saw a time when her

daughter would be called to choose; and she was glad that Auna would

most certainly fling in her lot with Jacob. She still believed, with

her mother, that souls were involved, and, therefore, felt it guilty

to be glad.

And Bullstone, knowing that the child might to-day get free speech

with Margery, had not slept for two nights until the result of Auna's

effort reached him. He had not directed her to do this, but he could

not forbid it. The inspiration was hers and he believed that it came

from something greater than Auna. He walked to meet her and his

heart beat hard as her slight figure came swinging along through the

lane beyond Shipley Farm.

She kissed him and he waited for her to speak as they walked homeward

together; but she did not speak for a little while. Then she told

the best thing she had to tell.

"Mother's going to drink the milk, father."

"Tell me," he answered. "Don't hold it back. Can she see me?"

"No, father."

"Does she want to see me?"

Auna hesitated, then spoke.

"No, father."

Then they walked together quite silently until something happened to

distract their thoughts. A quick step overtook them beside the river

and Robert Elvin, his day's work done, saluted them.

"Thought I might get over for a bite of supper, Mr. Bullstone,

because I was very wishful to have a word or two."

"And welcome, Bob. How's things?"

"All right--all very right I believe. I'd like for you to see the

mangolds. The rain have fetched them up proper and the guano be

doing wonders. So it is at Bullstone John Henry tells me."

That night after the evening meal, Bob approached his future

father-in-law on the great theme and begged to marry Avis within the

year.

Robert was a little independent--so his listener thought.

"My mother sees nothing against it and Avis is willing," he said, "so

I hope it may happen by your leave, Mr. Bullstone."

Jacob, morbid now in the presence of other people, detected, or

imagined that he detected, a changed note in all who accosted him.

And often he did do so, for a great weight of censure had rolled in

upon him since his error and many derived a sense of personal right

doing and right thinking when they said the obvious things concerning

him. But the significance of what he had done did not oppress the

younger generation since they had no experience of life to weigh its

implications. Robert was too busy about his own affairs to trouble

concerning the misfortunes of other folk. He had no intention to be

anything but respectful.

"If Avis is agreeable, as you say, then so it shall be, Bob,"

promised Jacob. Indeed the idea had already dwelt in his mind for

other reasons than the happiness of young Elvin. In the ceaseless

examination of all paths, in the pursuit of every faint thread which

might lead to the heart of his hopes, Bullstone had not neglected the

matter of his daughter's marriage. For there, if only for a moment

in time, he might possibly hope to meet on common ground with the

mother of Avis. He told himself that humanity would pardon a natural

and seemly meeting on the occasion of a child's marriage. None could

protest at that; and while he knew, and smarted to know, that many

held his desire--to receive back his wronged wife--as only another

offence; while, indeed, brutally faced in certain, unexpected

quarters with harsh censure, when he had confided, as he thought, in

sympathetic ears; and while consequently driven to lock his hopes out

of sight, since they were held shameless, yet in the matter of Avis,

he did see an opportunity against which it would be hard to take

exception. The girl must marry from her father's home; was it too

much to hope that her mother would see a way to come under his roof

on the occasion, if only for an hour? By night the possibility

seemed to take substance; by day, when his mind was clearer, it

faded; and to-night, though he spoke amiably to Robert and promised

the wedding should take place after the harvest, he felt less

sanguine than usual. He had expected this interview and desired it;

he had fancied it would cheer him and bring some hope, but now that

it had come, the light was quenched in anticipation by what he had

just heard from Auna.

Yet he struck a cheerful note, and it was not Jacob but Avis who

viewed the matter differently, and brought him back to the fact that

the past was not to be missed even in this matter. Robert called her

when he heard that they might wed, and she came into the kitchen,

where her father sat, and thanked him. Jacob declared his good

pleasure.

"And we'll do it in style I promise you," he said with ill-feigned

ardour. "You shall have a good send-off, and a good honeymoon, too,

before you start life in double harness."

"And after our marriage, you're going to settle Owley on me, aren't

you, father?" asked Avis. "I don't ask for inquisitiveness, but only

so as we shall know how we stand."

"Yes, I am. That was a promise. And I'll add this: that I shall

waive the rent as soon as ever I see my way clear."

"Not from the start, however?" asked Bob.

"Not from the start--no. Circumstances have called upon me for a

good deal of money lately and--however, the future's yours. Whatever

else they haven't got, the young have always the future."

Avis looked uncomfortable, feeling that the present was the time to

speak concerning details. She was sorry for herself and suffered a

disappointment which to one of her nature did not lack for edge. She

had dreamed of a very fine wedding indeed, but had been told by her

grandmother that any such hope would have to be abandoned. The fact

she now declared, and her regret lent unconscious tartness to her

speech.

"I can't have a gay wedding, father, and no doubt you know why. You

wouldn't have a gay wedding with a death in the house, and what's

happened is a long way worse than that."

She repeated a speech that she had heard from her grandmother on the

same subject, and Jacob stared, but did not answer.

"That's the worst of a thing like what you've done, father. It don't

stop where it belongs, and my wedding's got to suffer with everything

else."

Her father flushed, but he restrained himself and she stung on.

"You was always such a man for peace, and now you'll soon have

it--that's something."

Then Robert spoke. The ill-temper of Avis was a surprise to him.

"Have done," he said. "I don't want to hear you lecture your father."

He spoke rather sternly and Jacob answered him.

"Better stand up for her, not me, Bob. You'll soon know which side

your bread's buttered with my fine Avis. The wedding shall be as she

pleases."

Then he left them and they went out into the twilight together, Avis

a little alarmed.

She was soon forgiven, for she elaborated her grievance and explained

to Robert how the disaster that had overtaken Red House, wrecked not

only her mother's life, but cast its shadow over her own. She

pretended more than she felt and he consoled her as best he might,

for he was much in love and shared her regrets at the passing

misfortune, but broke away from it to their own surer future.

"There's a screw loose in such a lot of married people," he said.

"Don't think I haven't seen it. It was under my eyes while my father

was fighting death. Thank God you and me are different. We know

each other's natures down to the quick, and nothing could ever rise

up against love like ours."

Elsewhere Jacob mused over his recent experience.

"She's grown up," he reflected. "No doubt a moment in time comes

like that, when a man's child, that he still held to be a child,

flings off childhood and stands out before him full-fledged man, or

woman. And for certain the shock, when it falls, is oftener painful

than not."

He considered how this apotheosis of his elder daughter might have

hurt him once, though little likely to surprise him. But now it

lacked all power to hurt and left him indifferent. She was gone in

spirit long ago; and John Henry was gone; and Peter thought more of

George Middleweek's opinions than of his. Yet how trivial were these

losses and dismemberments now. For life, like the sleight of sun and

shadow on hills and valleys, had cast down and lifted up, had

transformed the shifting scenery of his existence, so that things

before invisible stared out upon him and the old landmarks and

comfortable places, the nook and dingle, the blue hill and

music-making waters, were obliterated and blotted from the theatre in

which he moved. Light glared pitiless where shadows had mercifully

spread; gloom threw a pall over what had seemed most stable, most

gracious and assured. Did the dogs look at him with the old

adoration in their eyes? Was it possible that the miasma he trailed

could miss their sensitive nostrils? He often hungered for

Huntingdon and the white, squab house under the sycamores; but he put

the thought from him as a weakness. Not there homed reality; not

there could he perform his penance, or justify the undying hope that

still burned up and, with its flickering promise, faintly revived the

old images and fought the new darkness that hung heavy upon them.

CHAPTER V

REVENGE

Now opportunity thrust another into the affairs of Jacob

Bullstone--one who never occupied a moment of his own thoughts, but

who, none the less, was deeply concerned with him.

Unknown and unguessed by his brother, or his aunt, Samuel Winter's

weak brain was suffering a stormy assault and gradually reaching a

very dangerous decision on the subject of his brother's wrongs.

Affairs that leapt instantly to the zenith in a normal intellect,

mounted by slow degrees for him; thus his purpose only matured long

after the summits of emotion in other men and women were passed. He

had taken the matter of Adam's affront very much to heart, and while

scarcely able to appreciate the details or understand their

significance, none the less grasped that the master of Red House had

done Adam an injury beyond any atonement. He had listened to his

aunt's furious comments on the disaster and shared her indignation;

he had perceived that, while unspeakable evil resulted from

Bullstone's errors, the criminal went unrestrained and apparently

unpunished. This he resented. Samuel's theory of justice embraced

active retaliation for wrong done, and he held it a grievance that

Jacob should be none the worse after his offences. He found the

matter fasten on his waking thoughts; and he harboured dreams of a

great revenge that should be worthy of the occasion. While the rest

of the world had cooled its anger; while even a shadow of regret for

both sufferers appeared here and there, doubtfully uttered by a

seeing woman or sentimental man, Samuel reached gradually to the

climax of his private hate. Bullstone must be struck hard, and from

this conviction, all unknown and unguessed, Sammy's faulty wits led

him to a still more tremendous conclusion. Long brooding, and a

gathering weight of indignation at the injustice of Jacob's escape,

decided the crazy creature to destroy him and rid the world of an

evil thing. He would kill the enemy as he killed vermin. Thus a

grave, physical peril now hung over Bullstone, and there was none to

warn him, since Samuel took care that not a whisper of his project

should be heard. He had the wit to guess that his brother might

condemn it; but believed notwithstanding that, after the event, Adam

must be the first to praise.

At this stage in his remorseless progress, chance lent itself to

Samuel's purpose and he accepted an opportunity. For once the muddy

currents of his intelligence flowed swiftly and he struck, after a

fashion more worthy of a knave than a fool.

Jacob Bullstone, exploring every channel and considering each human

figure that might be regarded as a link between himself and his wife,

had thought of late upon her brother. He had observed that Jeremy

now avoided him and, until the present, had not thought to challenge

the younger man, or thrust any needless difficulty upon his life; but

there came a sudden conviction that through his brother-in-law a

possible approach to Margery might be obtained. He yearned to put

circumstances before her and had endeavoured to do so by letter; but

the letters were returned by the hand of Auna, and when the girl once

more visited her mother with messages, she was told very plainly that

she must obey former commands and not mention her father again.

Failure to keep this order would mean denial of her mother to her.

Bullstone, considering ways and means, desired to furnish Margery

with money, and his lawyer assured him that there existed no

objection to so doing. He was impoverished himself and knew well

enough that his wife would take nothing from him, yet the thought

persisted, among other thoughts, and he strove to create from it, if

possible, some sort of tie between himself and his partner. He told

himself that if once the slenderest thread of communication might be

established and recognised, upon that he would build and build, until

something vital were accomplished.

Therefore he turned to Jeremy. He did not go to the green-grocer's,

but waited a chance meeting, and when that fell out, in a manner very

convenient to the purpose, he stopped the other and, to Jeremy's

discomfort, insisted on having speech with him. Huxam had been to

see some apples with a view to purchasing them on the trees, and he

was returning from an orchard in the valley above Brent, when he met

Jacob face to face, in a lane, and found it impossible to avoid him.

He was hastening past, with his face turned to the ground, when his

brother-in-law blocked the way.

"Well met," he said. "I've been wanting half a dozen words with you,

Jeremy. I won't keep you. I'll walk along with you."

"Mr. Bullstone," answered the other, "I'd rather you didn't. It's

all over between your family and mine, and I earnestly beg you'll not

speak to me."

"I must. You must endure it. I suppose you're a just man. I'm not

going to say anything on my own account--only on your sister's. She

has rights and I have obligations. These must be recognised; but

your parents come between me and my duty in that matter and won't

listen to me, or my lawyer, though he's tried to make them. They

oppose a blank wall to me out of ignorance. Some might say out of

malice; but I say out of ignorance."

"What d'you want to rip things up for? It isn't dignified of you to

stop me; you ought to know better."

"Dignity don't come into it. Just listen. I've been a good friend

to you anyway. You're not going to deny that. Then treat me as an

unfortunate man who comes to you quite reasonably and properly,

things being as they are. There's much that must be said, and

propositions must be heard, and it may be in your power to help

Margery to see another opinion than her mother's--not my opinion, but

the law's opinion. You understand money and you know what a husband

owes his wife, whether he's wronged her or not. I admit everything;

I acknowledge everything and none can make me out worse than I am;

but I'm human. I want to do what's right, and no Christian ought to

deny me the power to do what's right. Everything I've got is my

wife's if she will take it. She's living on her father and mother

now. They won't even suffer her to have her clothes."

"It's no business of mine," said Jeremy. "All the same, I see what

you mean. If I get a chance, I'll speak to her. I'm cruel sorry

about all this. It's become a matter of religion in my mother's

mind, or else things might be possible I dare say."

"No religion denies a man the right to do his duty, whatever he's

been."

"I'll mention it and see how she looks at it. Not that you can

expect any of us to trouble about you, or your duty either. No

member of my family ever stood between a man and his duty, all the

same. My parents may not have looked at it in that light. Money's

money every time. If I don't know that, who should?"

"It is her money and her children's after her."

The other considered.

"Strictly between ourselves," he said, "I may tell you I don't see

quite eye to eye with my mother in this affair. Men take a larger

view than women and, of course, there's two sides to every question.

My parents are getting on and, in the course of nature--well, as far

as Margery's concerned she's provided for; but I am not. You've got

to be worldly-wise with a wife and family and--in a word, nothing is

yet settled about me and Jane. My mother's been far too upset by

these disasters to think about us. But the time has come when we've

got to be thought about. Yes, I'll talk to Margery. She may not

look at it exactly like mother. Jane says that Margery doesn't. I

don't know. I seldom see her. And--well, they talk of going into

their villa residence at the end of the year; and nothing settled

about the business. To forgive is human after all. There's somebody

coming. You'd better turn here, afore they see who it is. I'll keep

it in mind. I'll get speech with her next time she comes to see us,

and try to find if she feels anything in particular."

"On the general question--not only money--the general question of a

possible reconciliation. Thank you gratefully."

Jeremy quickened his pace, and Jacob stopped and turned back. He

guessed that the other had become thus amenable through some private

inspiration bearing on his own welfare; but the motive mattered not.

He had said great things--words beyond measure heartening to Jacob.

For, if Margery did not echo her mother; if Jane had actually

recorded that important fact, then hope surely existed. That being

so, let him but break down one of the barriers, and the rest might

presently fall. He believed that much might come of this meeting, if

Jeremy kept his promise, and for a time the thought exalted him.

In this mood he passed Samuel Winter returning home with 'Turk.'

Before them opened a field over which ran a footpath--a short cut to

Shipley Bridge--and Jacob, though Samuel never now acknowledged him

save with a snort and a scowl, held open the gate for the bull and

wished the man good evening.

He received no response, however, beyond an unfriendly gleam from

Sammy's heavy eyes; then he pushed on to cross the meadow, and

quickly forgot Adam's brother under the weight of his own thoughts.

He was, however, speedily reminded. The meadow extended for two

hundred yards, with the river, under a steep bank, on the west of it,

and a stone wall, where ran the road, to the east. Road and river

met at Shipley Bridge and here the field narrowed to a point, where

stood another gate for cattle and carts, and a stile for foot

passengers.

Then it was that Sammy walking thirty yards behind Jacob won his

inspiration and acted upon it, with lightning rapidity. The supreme

enemy stood at his mercy for one minute, and between them stalked a

formidable engine of destruction. Samuel well knew what to do, for

he remembered once how a man, flinging away a lucifer match at a

show, had dropped it on 'Turk's' neck, and how the bull had behaved

on that occasion. He was firmly tethered at the time, otherwise some

lives had paid forfeit. Now Samuel shook out his pipe upon the

monster's back and loosed the rope from the ring in his nose. The

fire stung and 'Turk' responded. His head went up. He was conscious

of assault and, at the same time, perceived a man thirty yards ahead

of him. He protested audibly, to Samuel's regret, then put down his

head and in a royal rage charged the unconscious Jacob, where he

walked deep in thought. But for the shrill, warning bellow of the

beast, he had been doomed and must have been struck almost at the

moment he became conscious of the peril; but he heard, looked round,

saw the angry bull and its keeper, and, with a start of thirty yards,

began to run. His legs, however, could not save him and he

hesitated, while he ran, as to whether the wall or the river promised

the better chance. He stood midway between them and decided for the

stream, since once over the bank he would be safe, while at the wall

he must needs lose vital moments before he could climb it. The bull

was very near--nearer than he knew--and Jacob unconsciously saved

himself by a sudden swerve to the left, for as he twisted, his enemy

went past so close that its left, lowered horn tore his breeches. He

still had near thirty yards to go and the bull pulled up and doubled

almost as fast as the man; but now, alive to his danger, Jacob ran

amazingly fast for one of his age and size. He took a straight line

to the river and just reached the bank two yards before his pursuer.

He plunged straight on, ignorant of what might be beneath and 'Turk'

stopped with his fore feet on the brink. There he trampled and

screamed, but was unsighted and did not mark the enemy, who had

fallen through a thicket of alder overhanging the river a dozen feet

below.