Bullstone might have escaped with nothing but a wetting and bad

shaking, but for the unfortunate accident of a dead tree stump. This

heavy snag extended over a pool and he fell across it and turned a

somersault into six feet of water. He had, however, struck the tree

trunk with his right leg and broken his thigh. He heard the snap and

knew that a bone was gone; but he kept his nerve and, guessing that

the bull had been set upon him, could not tell whether Samuel Winter

might not descend and finish the murder he had planned. He stopped

in the water therefore and floating down with the stream, holding

himself up by the bank, reached the cover of an overhanging ledge and

remained beneath it motionless.

Samuel, however, was content with his achievement. He looked over,

saw no sign of the enemy, doubted not that he was drowned and roared

with laughter. Then he turned to the heaving bull, slapped its neck,

kissed its nose, and heaped affectionate curses upon it. Presently,

thrusting his rope through the monster's ring, he led it away.

Jacob heard him go, but found that without the water to support him

he could not stand. His leg was powerless and he felt the broken

bone probing the flesh. He crawled out on the farther bank of the

river and lay flat. He felt faint at the unfamiliar exertion and

suffered pain also; but he waited for some time, not daring to lift

his voice until Samuel might be out of hearing. The terrible

incident seemed not particularly dreadful to him. Sudden death

offered no terrors; yet he was thankful to live, for he desired much

to happen before he died. Death, indeed, might be already upon him,

for he felt very ill; but his mind remained clear. He could find it

in him to sorrow for Adam Winter before this disaster. This would

bring more suffering upon him, for the madman might have to be shut

up.

It was thanks to Samuel himself that the broken man endured but a

short suspense. Jacob had determined to raise no alarm until good

space of time had passed; and before he lifted his voice assistance

came, for Samuel, returning home in great glee, put up the bull, then

told his aunt of the adventure.

"I've done for the beastly man," he said. "Bully went for him and

horched his thigh and just missed him by a hair, then he ran for the

river and Turk after him like a long-dog,[1] and in went Bullstone,

tail over head, and was drowned, thank the watching Lord! A good

day's work and may I never do a worse."

[1] _Long-dog_--Greyhound.

Amelia listened and took good care not to condemn Samuel, for censure

was gall to him. She left him at his tea a moment later and ran for

Adam, who was milking. Thus it happened that within half an hour of

his downfall, Jacob saw Winter running over the field, heard his

shout and answered him.

In less than another half hour Adam had brought round a flat-bottomed

pig-cart with blankets and pillows. Two men assisted him and

Bullstone was lifted as gently as might be. Then Winter himself

drove the injured man to Brent cottage hospital, while a labourer

proceeded to Red House with the news.

CHAPTER VI

THE WITCH DOCTOR

Jacob's illness followed a straightforward and satisfactory course.

It offered no marked features and awoke interest rather for its

cause, than itself, or the sufferer. A week after he was known to be

on the way to recovery, his wife went to see her brother. Jeremy

had, after the accident, kept his mouth shut and taken no steps to

advance her husband's hopes, but to-day Margery herself spoke such

words as none had yet heard from her.

Bullstone's disastrous adventure did not lack for dramatic telling in

Auna's version. For once she demanded to speak of her father, and

she quickened her description with many tears. Nor could the event

fail to deepen Margery's own emotions. She was not built to maintain

an obdurate attitude to any experience, and whatever her present

angle of vision, after speech with her mother, her spirit quickened

and her flesh yearned. There seemed only one place for her at this

time; and that was at her husband's bedside; there offered only one

seemly channel of duty: to be nursing him. Life was short. She

hungered terribly for an understanding and sympathetic spirit to help

her at this crisis, and found that, after all, despite the tragedy of

his long outrage and cruel assault, her husband was still nearest,

and still quickest to reach the depths of her. Then thought,

advancing upon this conviction, painted a new and another Jacob. She

was aware that the whole world set sternly against him and,

misreading the attempted murder, suspected that, perhaps, even Adam

Winter might not have forgiven him. Surely it must have been some

fiery word from Adam that prompted Samuel to his attempt. Yet there

she hesitated and, on second thoughts, remembered Adam better.

Doubtless he had pardoned long ago; but mad Samuel none the less

echoed the people, and she knew, from what her father had told her,

that the country side was more interested in Jacob's disaster than

regretful of it. Their sole regret went out for the brother and the

aunt of the man responsible.

Now, despondent and bewildered, Margery found some comfort in talking

openly to her brother and his wife.

She took tea with them on a Sunday and was unguarded and indifferent

as to what they might say, or think, of her opinion. They perceived

the change in her and set it down to Jacob's situation; but though

that had largely served to stimulate Margery and offer a point for

argument with her parents, it did not account for the radical and

growing operations of her soul. The inevitable had happened, and

with all its sorrows and trials, she yet wanted back her life as it

was, sanctified to her by custom. She yearned for the home that she

had made and her spirit could rise to no other. She was changed,

weakened a little mentally, as well as much physically, by her

experiences, more frightened of life and less desirous to face it.

Now she longed only for quiet--to be secluded and hidden away,

forgotten and left alone. She did not dread solitude, silence, peace

any more. She desired them before all things and wearied

inexpressibly of the noise of the street, the bustle of business and

the din of activity round about her. Among the many facts learned

with increasing certainty, was the assurance that she would soon

sicken and die, cooped here under the eyes of her parents--an object

of pity for her father, of triumph for Judith.

These convictions she voiced to Jane, and whimsically lamented that

situation which all just persons supposed she was most thankful to

have escaped for ever.

"Time blots out the bad and leaves the good still to remind you," she

said. "You may not believe it, but it is so. I always remember the

happy things and slip the unhappy. It's not only things that happen,

but people that made them happen. Get far enough away from people,

and you find the parts in them you hate grow dimmer and the parts you

like grow brighter. That's why the natural feeling is to speak

kindly of the dead. We generally feel kindly to them. At least I

do."

"It's true," declared Jane. "When anybody's dead, part of 'em always

rises up again on people's tongues, and we don't speak well of them

who are dead only because they are dead and can't defend themselves,

but because time, as you say, Margery, keeps the good and lets the

bad go. I can say it to you and Jeremy, though I wouldn't to anybody

else. Take your own mother. I always feel ever so much kinder to

her when I escape from hearing her, or seeing her for a week or so."

"You oughtn't to say that, Jane," declared her husband. "It's a very

doubtful speech."

"Not it," she answered. "No use pretending. You don't see your

mother like the rest of the world, because she don't see you like the

rest of the world. And Margery's right. If she don't know, who

should?"

"Ask yourself, Jane. You're married and have got plenty of sense to

see things. Suppose Jeremy and you was parted for some great,

terrible deed done by him: a bee in Jeremy's bonnet, for which he was

sorry enough. And suppose, with time, you hadn't only forgiven him,

as a Christian, but really and truly, as a wife and a woman. And

suppose everything--everything that had made your life, and that

you'd made of your life, was taken away, and you were left stranded.

What would it be to you?"

"Hell," said Jane frankly. "There's no other word for it."

"And what would you do, Jeremy, if that had happened to you?"

continued his sister. "Would you feel that, for her soul's sake,

Jane must never come back to you?"

"I'm glad to say no such thing could happen to me, and it's idle

worrying to think what you'd do if a thing happened that can't

happen," answered the man. "And now you're here, it will be good for

you to get away from your own vexations for a bit and lend a hand

with mine. And first I may tell you that I've seen your husband that

was."

"Seen him? Oh, Jeremy!"

"Keep it dark. I didn't seek him. He cornered me and would talk.

Don't think I yielded about it. Not at all. I was firm as a rock

with him, because, of course, mother's dead right in that matter; but

there it is. Jacob Bullstone was very wishful indeed to get into

touch with you, and seemed to think he had a right. But I hit out

from the shoulder fearlessly, and he heard my honest opinion of him

and so on. However, I'm a man of the world notwithstanding, and

nobody knows how difficult the world is better than I do. So up to a

certain point and, well within my conscience, I may do as I'm done by

in the matter."

Margery regarded him with parted lips.

"He wants to see me?"

"I was the last to have speech with him before he was smashed, and

there's no doubt he had a near squeak of his life. I remember Amelia

Winter telling me years ago, when I was a huckster, that in the case

of Samuel Winter, as a young child, it was a great question whether

he'd turn out amazingly clever, or weak in his head. Unfortunately

he proved one of the Lord's own, and now, since this business, Adam

feels it a difficult question whether Sammy didn't ought to be put

away. Why I tell you this is because I'm coming to the point, and

that is our mother's fine rule of life that nothing happens by

chance."

"Go on," said Margery.

"Well, granted nothing happens by chance, then we've got the

satisfaction of knowing we are doing Heaven's will from morning till

night. Therefore, if you help me in a vital matter and I help you in

a vital matter, we're both doing Heaven's will; and whatever came of

it, mother would be the first to confess it was so."

"Lord, Jeremy!" cried Jane. "D'you mean to say----"

"I mustn't come into it," explained Jeremy. "I don't say I'll lift a

hand; but I do say that, if it was established that Jane and I go to

the post-office when the old people retire, I should feel a great

deal clearer in my mind and kinder to the world at large. It is high

time I had a bit of light on that subject, and I'm a good deal

puzzled the light hasn't shone. I've been hoping a long time to hear

we was to go in, and so I feel that you might find good and useful

work ready to your hand in that matter, Margery. And--and one good

turn deserves another. That's well within a clear conscience."

"A 'good' turn--yes," declared Jane doubtfully.

"It would be a good turn if I decide to help Margery, because we must

all do as the Lord intends, and therefore it couldn't be a bad one,"

explained the casuist. "In a word, if Margery impressed upon mother

that the right and proper thing was to trust the business and the

post-office to us, that might determine the point. As a matter of

fact I'm uneasy. Father's been into Plymouth more than once of late

and, of course, they're looking ahead. They always do."

"They are," answered Margery, "and I'll tell you something. Mother

wants you and Jane to take over the business--under father. And

father, seeing you've never stuck to nothing in your life, feels very

doubtful if you're the man. They differ."

"Just as I thought," murmured Jeremy, "and some people might be vexed

with their fathers; but that's only to waste time. So there it is.

You're all powerful with father--eh, Margery?--and surely to God you

know Jane and me well enough to know mother is right."

Margery perceived the nature of the bargain. She believed with

Jeremy that their father was to be won. Indeed he sometimes came

near yielding to Judith's steadfast conviction. She might very

possibly settle the point in her brother's favour; but what could he

do for her? Nothing with her parents. The problems that had looked

vague and, indeed, had never been considered in her mind before, now

rose and began to take a definite shape, Until now nothing but a dim,

undefined desire for something that must not be--for something her

parents held unthinkable--had stolen through her mind and settled

over it, like a sad fog. She had accepted the situation and supposed

that the craving for some return to vanished conditions was at best

weakness, at worst evil. Yet now she had moved beyond that point to

an acute nostalgia. Jacob's tribulation was augmented by the

startling news that he desired to see her. She found comfort in

Jeremy's sophistries, but knew, even while he uttered them in his

mother's words, that they echoed anything but his mother's spirit.

Jeremy was a humbug, as charming people are so apt to be; but the

fact still remained: nothing happened but what Providence planned.

She began to think of details and they made her giddy. To move from

secret wishes to open words was enough for one day. She had never

dared to be so explicit, and her confession in the ear of sympathetic

Jane comforted her. But her constitutional timidity, developed much

of late, now drew her in.

What could Jeremy do? Deeds were not in Jeremy's line. Time must

pass. Jacob must get well again--then, perhaps--she would see how

she felt then. He might change his mind. Possibly he only wanted to

mention some trifle. Margery doubted whether her present emotions

were healthy or dangerous; then she fell back on her brother's

affairs.

"You've given me something to think about; and I will think of it,"

she said.

"And Jeremy shall think of what you've told us," promised Jane, "for

I'll remind him to do so."

"The thing is the greatest good to the greatest number," declared

Jeremy. "That's always been my rule and always will be. And clearly

the greatest good to me and my wife and children lies at the

post-office. Others see it beside us. As for your greatest good,

Margery--that's a very difficult question."

"I know it. I hope I haven't said too much; but you'll forgive me if

I have. I feel--I feel, somehow, that I ought to see my husband, if

he still wishes it."

"You would," answered Jane, "and so would any nice woman feel the

same."

"That's the point," argued Jeremy. "You may be right, or you may be

wrong. But the general opinion is that you show what a fine creature

you are by keeping away from him. Why don't you put it to mother?"

"Put it to a man," advised Jane. "Ax parson. It's a free country

and though we're all Chosen Fews, that don't prevent parson from

being a very sensible chap. Or, if you don't like the thought of

him, try somebody else."

But Margery gave no promise. She went home vaguely heartened and

determined at least to work for Jeremy. She felt, indeed, that what

he desired would be sure to happen presently without any word from

her; still to work for him was good. She had nobody to work for now.

Next morning she went to chapel with Mrs. Huxam and, finding herself

brave afterwards, actually followed Jeremy's suggestion and gave

Judith a shock of unexpected pain.

"Mother," she said. "I've got great thoughts and you should hear

them. We can't think anything we're not meant to think, and now my

thoughts have taken a turn. You know how it was with me. After our

trouble I didn't want to live; I'd have been glad to shut my eyes and

sleep and never wake up. Then I got better and braver. And then I

grew to miss the life of my home terribly, because, whatever the

cause, to be wrenched out of the little holding of your days must

hurt. And so I got worse again--body and mind. And now I've looked

on and asked myself about it."

"Better you looked still farther on and put away all that joins you

to the past. That I've told you more than once, Margery."

"You have; but I can't do it. You can't forget your whole married

life and your motherhood and the father of your children. If you do,

there's nothing left for a woman. And I've come to see this very

clearly. I'm Jacob's wife."

"No longer in the Lord's sight."

"Let me speak. I'm Jacob's wife; and what I'm sure now is that Jacob

is a very different man from what he was. God Almighty has changed

Jacob, and the poison that did these dreadful things is poured out,

and he's left, like the man from whom the devil was drawn by Jesus

Christ. Mother, when first I even thought about Red House, I felt

shame and dursn't tell you, for I feared the longing to see it again

came from the devil. Now I don't feel shame, and I know the longing

don't come from the devil. There's duty to be done there yet."

"Thank God you've told me this," answered Judith, "for we've got to

do some fierce fighting, I fear. Not the devil? Why, I see his

claws, Margery!

"'Tis his last and deadliest stroke, to make his temptation look like

duty and come before you clothed like an angel of light. An old

trick that's snapped many a soul. Never, never do you hide your

thoughts from me, Margery, after this."

"But wait. Suppose, by forgiving in act as well as heart, I went

back presently. Then I might save Jacob himself."

"Oh, the cunning of the Enemy--the craft--the sleepless cleverness!

No, you can't save Jacob Bullstone; but you can lose yourself.

There's always the chance of losing yourself while breath is in your

body, and Lucifer knows it, and he'll often win at the last gasp on a

man's deathbed. He's proud, remember, and his pride leads him to try

the difficult things. Can't you see? How is it so few can see the

net he weaves, while the lotion of the Gospel's at everybody's hand

to wash their eyes clear if they would? He's vain as a peacock and

likes to do the difficult things and catch the souls in sight of

Heaven's gates. I know; I read him; not many women have conned over

his ways like I have. And now he's saying 'Jacob Bullstone is

mine--a gift from his youth up--and there's no cleverness in keeping

your own; but the woman he's cast down is not mine.' And your soul

would be worth the winning. And what's cleverer than to make you

think you can save your doomed husband's soul when, to try, would be

to lose your own? You'd best to pray on your knees about this and

call loudly on your Saviour. I'm a lot put about to hear of such

dreadful thoughts. They've crept in through the chinks in the armour

of salvation, Margery, and you must look to it this instant moment."

"There's a human side, mother. The man has been called to face

death. He lies there in hospital and----"

"And where did he fling you to lie? Where was hospital for the ills

you have suffered and the death you have died? There is a human

side, and to return good for evil is our duty; but there's a higher

duty than that. Don't argue. I know all about the human side; but

humanity was never yet called upon to risk its immortality and hope

of salvation. I'll hear no more touching this at all, Margery. I'm

suffering for you a good bit. I've failed to make the truth clear

seemingly."

"No, no, you haven't failed. I know how you view it."

"Set your trust where only trust can be set," said Mrs. Huxam, "and

trust your God, like a little child, to show you, in His good time,

how your future life's got to go. And first He wills for you to get

up your health of mind and body. Your mind before everything. Your

body's nought; but your mind's sick--far, far sicker than I

thought--and we must see to it. There's fighting to be done and

we'll fight. I thought all that was over; but the devil smells a

sick soul, like a cat smells fish, and I might have known there was

danger lurking."

They returned home, to find that somebody had called upon Margery's

mother. Old William Marydrew awaited them in his Sunday black.

Margery he welcomed kindly, though she responded in doubt; but Mrs.

Huxam, who knew the ancient man for her son-in-law's friend, showed

open suspicion and seemed little inclined to grant the speech he

begged.

"I've no quarrel with you," she said, "and I very well remember your

godly daughter, for Mercy Marydrew had the light; but----"

"The better the day the better the deed," ventured Billy. "Don't

stand against me till you've heard me. I don't come from Mr.

Bullstone. I'm here on my own--for a friendly tell--and I hope

you'll respect my age and give ear to what I'd like to say."

Mr. Huxam, who had been talking to William until his wife's return,

supported the proposition.

"Hear him, Judy," he said. "Nobody's ever heard nothing from William

that he shouldn't hear, but on the contrary, much that was well worth

hearing. Wisdom like his, when it's mellow and not turned sour, as

wisdom will with some old folk, be all to the good. We'll go into

the kitchen and see after dinner and leave you to it."

He departed with Margery, and Mrs. Huxam took off her black thread

gloves and blew her nose.

"Speak then," she said, "and take the easy-chair. I'm not one to

deny respect and attention to any religious-minded man; but I warn

you that there are some things don't admit of dragging up. You

understand."

William plunged at once into the great matter of his visit.

"Single-handed I come," he said, "and I wish I was cleverer and

better skilled to bend speech to my purpose; but you must allow for

that. In a word, there's a general feeling in a good few minds that

Jacob Bullstone is indecent and blameworthy to want his wife to go

back to him; while, against that, in a good few other, well-meaning

minds--women as well as men--there's a feeling it might be a very

decent thing to happen, and wouldn't hasten the end of the world

anyway. And I, for one, incline to think the same."

"The end of the world's not our business," said Judith, "but the

souls of ourselves and our children and grand-children are our

business. You strike in on ground where I've just been treading, and

I'm very sorry to hear you can say what you have said. Whether it's

indecent and blameworthy for Jacob Bullstone to want his wife don't

matter at all. What those doomed to eternal death want, or don't

want, is nought. But we've got to think of the living, and we've got

to save the souls that are still open to be saved."

"Certainly; and who, under God, has the right to damn woman, or

child, or man, or mouse, my dear? I saw Bullstone in hospital

yesterday, and seeing and hearing him, it came over me like a flame

of fire to have a word with you, because well I know you are the

turning point--the angel of life, or death I might say--to these two.

Everything depends upon you seemingly--or so he reckons. You hold

their future lives in your hand. That's a lot to say, but not too

much. And I should much like to hear your point of view on this high

subject. Bullstone, I must tell you, have suffered a very great

deal, and his eyes are opened to his lunatic act. He was just as mad

every bit as Sammy Winter, who set the bull on him to mangle him.

Just as mad, my dear; but with a far worse sort of madness; and yet a

madness that can be cured, which Sammy's can't in this world. And

afore the God we both obey, I tell you that Jacob is cured. His

sufferings have been all you could wish, and his broken thigh, and so

on, was nothing in comparison. He's gone through tortures that make

his broken bones no worse than a cut finger; and I want you to

understand that he's long ways different from what he was, Mrs.

Huxam, and an object for good Christian forgiveness all round. And

now you tell me what you think about it?"

Judith looked, almost with pity, at the ancient prattler. It seemed

to her that such people as Mr. Marydrew could hardly have more souls

to save, or lose, than a bird on a bough. They were apparently

innocent and went through the world, like unconscious creatures,

doing neither harm nor good. But Billy suddenly appeared in harmful

guise. It was as though an amiable, domestic animal had showed its

teeth, threatened attack and became a danger.

"You're touching subjects a thought too deep for your intellects, Mr.

Marydrew, if you'll excuse me for saying so," she began.

"Don't say that. I venture to think----"

"You think, but I know. I know that no man or woman can interfere

between Jacob Bullstone and his Maker, or undo what's done. For once

even the doubtful sense of the world at large sees it. A child could

see it. My daughter has come to the gate of salvation by a bitter

road, like many do. She's faced great sufferings and escaped awful

perils; but she's through the gate; it's fast home behind her, and

she ain't going to open it again to her death--be sure of that. He

dares to want to see her, and you say he's changed. But, after

you've done some things, it's too late to change. He's lost. Why?

Because, like a lot of this generation, he's listened to false

teachers and thought the Powers of Evil were growing weak. To hear

some people, you'd think the devil was no more than a scarecrow set

up to frighten the world into the paths of goodness."

"True," admitted Billy. "It was so with me. Looking back I can

plainly see, as a lad, the fear of Old Nick had a lot more to do with

my keeping straight than love of God. God was above my highest

imaginings. I only knew He was wishful to get me into Heaven some

day, if I gave Him half a chance. But the devil seemed much nearer

and much more of a live person. Somehow you find that bad folk

always are nearer and more alive than good ones--don't you?"

"Because we all know bad people and have every chance to see them

misbehaving," said Mrs. Huxam, "but good people are rare, and always

will be."

"I wouldn't say that. I'm so hopeful that I rather share the growing

opinion against hell. I believe the next generation will knock the

bottom out of hell, my dear, because they'll find something better.

There's a lot of things far better than in my youth, and new love be

better than ancient fear. Grant that and you can't say Jacob's down

and out. He's a very penitent man, and he's turned to God most

steadfast of late, and it would be a great triumph for the mercy of

God, his Maker, if he came through, and a great sign of the

Almighty's power in human hearts."

She regarded Billy with mild interest, but hardly concealed her

contempt.

"And you in sight of your grave and your judgment, and so wrong in

opinions," she said. "'A sign?' Yes. This generation seeks after a

sign no doubt; and that's an impious thing to do at any time. And I

dare say the day is not very far off when it will get the sign it

deserves. D'you know what you're doing, you perilous old man?

You're trying to hold back the mills of God--you, that know so little

of the truth, that you can say the bottom's going to be knocked out

of hell! I didn't ought to listen, I reckon, for from your own mouth

you've told me you are with the fallen ones, and I never thought the

father of Mercy Marydrew had missed salvation. But 'tis a very true

thing that most of us are judged out of our mouths. No devil! Poor

soul! Poor, lost soul! But, such is the will of God, that I see

clearer and clearer how only them that have escaped Satan know him

for what he is. The world lies in his keeping, and the people don't

know no more what has caught them than the fish in a net. But I

know. I see his ways and his awful art. I see him as he

is--black--black--and you can smell the smeech of him when some

people are talking. And not the swearers and lewd ones only, but

many, as think, like you, they are doing God's work. That's the last

and awfulest trick of him, William Marydrew--to make his work look

like God's."

Billy was amused and distracted from the object of his visit.

"My!" he said. "Blessed if I thought there was anybody in Brent knew

such a lot about Old Nick as you do, Mrs. Huxam. A proper witch

doctor you be! But even the saved make mistakes. 'Tis on the cards

you may be wrong, and I hope you are. You'm terrible high-minded,

but them that want to be high-minded must be single-minded, and the

clever ones often come to grief. You know a lot too much about the

Black Man, and I'd like to hear who told you. But be that as it may,

there's a very fine thing called mercy--come now."

"There is," said Mrs. Huxam, "or the bolt would fall a lot oftener

than it does. Mercy belongs to God, else heaven would be empty when

the Trump sounds; but there's also such a thing as justice, and

justice is man's business. He can leave mercy where it belongs and

not dare to think of such a thing when a sinner falls. For that's to

know better than Him that made the sinner. Justice is what we

understand, because our Maker willed that we should. Our first

parents had their taste of justice, and justice is within our reach.

To talk of showing mercy to the wicked as you do, is to say a vain

thing and range yourself against justice. Only through justice can

come hope for any of us, William Marydrew. Our business is to do

justly and not pander with evil, or try to touch the thing with

merciful hands."

"And that's what life have taught you," murmured Billy. "And you

thrive and keep pretty well on it. I've always heard you was a

wonder, my dear, but how wonderful I never did guess. Now tell me,

is Adam Winter, who be of the Chosen Few, in the right to forgive the

man that did him so much harm, or in the wrong?"

They talked for an hour, then, weary and conscious that Mrs. Huxam

was not made of material familiar to him, William rose and went his

way.

"No offence given where none is taken, I hope. I'm sorry you can't

see it might be a vitty thing for husband and wife to come together

in fulness of time; because if you can't see it, it won't happen

perhaps. But turn over the thought, like the good woman you are, and

if the Lord should say that mercy ain't beyond human power, after

all--well, listen."

"You needn't tell me to listen, Mr. Marydrew. I'm sorry for your

blindness and I'm sorry for your deafness, but I see clear and I hear

clear still."

"Good day then. No doubt it takes all sorts to make a world."

"Yes," answered she, "but only one sort to make a heaven."

He laughed genially.

"Then I hope they won't knock the bottom out of hell, after all, else

where should us of the common staple go? Must spend eternity

somewhere."

"Scratch a sinner and the devil always peeps out," thought Mrs. Huxam

as William departed.

CHAPTER VII

AT JACOB'S BEDSIDE

A week later William visited Jacob in hospital. He was nearing

recovery, but now knew that he might be lame for the rest of his

life. The sufferer felt indifferent; but he cherished minor

grievances and grumbled to his friend.

"Only Auna ever comes to see me. Would you believe that? Not once

has John Henry visited me, and only once, Avis--and her marriage,

that I've agreed to, and the farm that I've given her and all!" he

said.

"Young lovers be selfish toads," explained William; "think nothing of

it. I believe Avis will prove a better daughter after marriage than

before. She's the sort will get sweeter with ripeness. For John

Henry there's no excuse. I'll talk to him some day and open his

eyes. But the great truth is that their amazing grandmother be more

to your children than their own parents. A mystery, Jacob; but the

ways of blood are always a mystery. The dead will come to live in

their havage[1] and pass on the good and bad qualities alike. 'Tis a

pity Providence don't look to it that only the good be handed down;

because then the breed of men and women would be a lot better by now

than they are; but all qualities are part and parcel, and even

goodness often takes narrowness and coldness of heart along with it."

[1] _Havage_--offspring.

"Margery's heart was never cold."

"But her mother's--her mother's, Jacob! I may tell you now that I

carried out a little plot in that quarter and went to see Mrs. Huxam

on a Sabbath. I had in my mind that at my great age and with my

well-known good character, I might influence her; because in a few

other directions I've talked round high-minded people and showed 'em

that, as things are, nought could be hopefuller than for you and your

wife to come together again."

"You meant well as you always do, Billy."

"An Old Testament fashion of woman is your mother-in-law. The faith

that would move mountains. It's a good thing that she hasn't got

much power, for she'd use it in a very uncomfortable fashion if she

had. A great, mournful wonder in the land. She's like a sloe-bush,

Jacob: the older she grows, the sharper her thorns and the poorer her

fruit. I came away with my tail between my legs, I assure you. I

was dust in the wind afore her."

"She'll never change."

"Never. Wild horses wouldn't make her change. Hell comforts her,

same as heaven comforts us, and there's no fear the fires would go

out if she had the stoking."

"The littleness of her--the littleness of her!" cried Jacob. "Can't

she see that all this talk is nothing to tortured flesh and blood?

Her power lies in the weakness and ignorance of other people. Hear

this, William: my wife would see me and listen to me, if her mother

allowed it. And when I know that--to Auna she whispered it--in a

weak moment--still Auna heard--and when I know that, what's hell or

heaven to me? They must be nothing, anyway, to a man who has done

what I've done--to a man who has brought such sorrow on the earth as

I have. What is eternity to one who's wasted all his time? The

things I might have done--the happiness I might have given--the good

I might have wrought! Instead, I break the heart of the best, truest

woman ever a man had for wife. What can alter that? Can eternity

alter it? Can heaven make it better, or hell make it worse? Nothing

can change it but what happens here--here--before it's too late. And

Judith Huxam is going to confound all--just that one, old woman,

poisoned by religion, as much as I was poisoned by jealousy."

"A very great thought, Jacob," admitted Mr. Marydrew. "We be in the

hand of principalities and powers, and mystery hides our way, look

where we will. But we must trust. Everything is on the move, and

the Lord can touch the hardest heart."

"Hearts are nothing, William. The head governs the world, and great,

blind forces govern the head. Blind forces, driving on, driving over

us, like the wheel over the mole by night; and despite our wits and

our power of planning and looking ahead and counting the cost, we

can't withstand them. They run over us all."

"We can't withstand 'em; but the God who made 'em can," answered

William. "Be patient still and trust the turn of the lane. You be

paying the wages of your sin, Jacob; you be paying 'em very steady

and regular; and I hope that a time will come when you'll be held to

have paid in full. We never know how much, or how little our Maker

calls us to pay for our mistakes. You may have very near rubbed off

the score by God's mercy; for He's well known for a very generous

creditor and never axes any man to pay beyond his powers."

He chattered on and, from time to time, patted Jacob's big hand, that

lay on the counterpane of his bed.

The sick man thanked him presently and then there came Peter, to see

his father on business. He asked after Jacob's health and expressed

satisfaction to know that he was making progress. Having received

necessary instructions, he went his way and William praised him.

"There's more humanity in Peter than there is in my eldest," admitted

Peter's father.

He grew calmer before Billy left him and promised to keep his soul in

patience.

"First thing you've got to do is to get well and up on your legs

again against the wedding," urged William.

"I hope much from it," answered Jacob. "I'm planning to beg Barlow

Huxam to see me on the subject. That's reasonable--eh?"

"Very reasonable indeed. He's one with a good deal of sense to him.

In fact the man as have lived all his life with your mother-in-law

must have qualities out of the common," declared William. "But he

haven't neighboured with that amazing character all these years for

nothing. How much of his soul he calls his own, you may know better

than me. 'Tis a case of Aaron's rod swallowing the lesser, and he

won't gainsay Mrs. Huxam in anything, I'm afraid."

When he was gone, one thought of a comforting character remained with

the sick man. He had been much daunted with the tremendous moral

significance of the opinion of the world and its crushing censure.

It had weakened resolution and increased his self-condemnation. Now

his friend was able to assert that public emotion grew quieter

against him; that even, in some quarters, he had won an admission it

might be reasonable for husband and wife to come together again.

This fact soothed Bullstone, for like many, who do not court their

fellow-creatures, he had been, none the less, sensitive of their

opinions and jealous of their approval. Herein, therefore, appeared

hope. He felt grateful to his old companion, who, among so many

words that to Jacob meant no comfort, was yet able to drop this

salutary consolation. He much desired to tell Auna, who had long

been the recipient of all his confidences and made older than her

years by them.

CHAPTER VIII

JEREMY EVASIVE

After Margery knew her husband's desires, she was animated fitfully

to make an effort and return. But she lacked strength to do any such

thing single-handed. She had been losing vitality, yet so gradually,

that none about her appeared conscious of the fact. Even Auna saw

her too often to appreciate it. The girl came every week, but won no

further opportunity to see her mother alone. She opposed a sulky

obstinacy to her grandmother and Judith began to fear for her.

Then Margery saw her brother again and, with even less reticence than

on a former occasion, appealed to him. She had kept her original

contract and succeeded in winning her father. It was understood that

Jeremy and Jane would take over the post-office and the draper's

shop, when the Huxams went to their private house; and Jeremy, now

accustomed to the idea, argued that his sister had really not

influenced the decision and that she might not, therefore, fairly ask

him to assist her present project. In fact he much desired to be off

the bargain, and but for Jane, would have evaded it. She showed him,

however, that this might not honourably be done and, with very ill

grace, Margery's brother listened to her purpose.

"I must go back when he does," explained Jacob's wife. "He's made a

good recovery, and can walk on crutches, and will soon be able to

travel with a stick. And the next thing will be the wedding, I

suppose; and I ought to be at my home for that. Because such a thing

will break the ice and help all round--at least so I feel and hope.

I must go back, Jeremy. I'm called stronger and stronger to it, and

mother's awful ideas don't trouble me no more. I've gone much

farther than to forgive Jacob now. He's been very near death and I

ask myself what I'd have felt. But all that's my business. What I

beg from you, Jeremy, is just practical help--to meet me by night

with your trap, unbeknownst to any living thing but ourselves, and

drive me back."

"I don't like it--I hate it," he answered. "It's not a religious

action and I'm very doubtful indeed if it's a wise one even from a

worldly point of view. The excitement will certainly be terrible bad

for you, because you're in no state at all to stand it."

"It may be kill or cure; but I'd far rather face it than go on like

this--seeing my bones come through my skin and my hair fail me.

It'll soon be now or never; but I do think, if I get back quietly and

quickly, I'll build up again and be some good to my family. I'm only

sorry for mother."

Jeremy exploited the ethical objections.

"You see, Margery, it's quite as difficult for me as for you. As a

matter of fact you're putting a great charge on my conscience,

because I've got to go contrary to mother and behind her back--a

thing I've never yet done--and feeling as I do that she is right----"

"You've promised," interrupted Jane. "You promised to lend Margery a

hand if she helped you; and she did help you. And it's humbug to say

you never hid anything behind your mother's back, my dear man. What

about it when you married me?"

"I'm talking to Margery, not you," he replied, "and I was going to

say that somebody else might help her in the details much better than

I could. You see some think she's right, and such as them would do

this with a much better appetite than I shall. How if I was to drop

a hint and get another man to do it, Margery? It would be just the

same to you and a good bit pleasanter for me."

"There's nobody but you," she answered, "and it's properly unkind if

you're going back on your promise."

"He isn't," declared Jane with diplomacy. "He's a lot too fearless

and a lot too good a brother for that."

"I wouldn't say I promised; but of course if you feel I did----"

continued Jeremy. "However I've got rather a bright idea, and since

you're firm about this, and nobody will thank God better than your

husband if you do go back, then why not let him do it? That would be

a natural seemly arrangement since you both think alike. I'm

perfectly willing to go to him and tell him."

"No," said Margery. "That would upset everything I've planned. My

return must be a surprise for a thousand reasons. I want to go back

as I came out. In plain words, I've got to escape mother to go at

all. Set like steel as she is against any truck with Jacob, I have

no choice but to deceive her. I'm too weak to carry it off with a

high hand, and she'd stop me if she guessed I was thinking of it.

Only I can't, of course, walk to Red House, and so I must be drove;

and you must drive me."

"If you're a man, you will, Jeremy," added Jane. "You promised."

"I bargain, then, that my part never comes out," said Jeremy, much

perturbed. "I consider this is something of a trap I'm in, and I

don't think much the better of you for it, Margery. And I believe

you're courting a pack of trouble, not to speak of Everlasting

punishment if you go back to such a man. But since you won't let me

out, I'll do as you wish on the one understanding, that my name's

never whispered."

Neither Margery nor Jane, however, felt any sorrow for Jeremy.

"Thank you, then," said his sister. "It's only a question of waiting

now till my husband's well enough to go home. Then you can fix up a

night, and I'll husband my strength and come and meet you at Lydia

Bridge, or somewhere out of the way. We might do better to go round

under Brent Tor."

"We must leave the details for the present," said Jeremy, "and it

will be needful to wait till the nights are longer and darker."

Jane changed the subject.

"What about Avis and Bob?" she asked. "Jacob counts on their wedding

taking place from Red House--so Mr. Marydrew told me."

"It's going to be a difficult subject," answered Margery; "everything

must be difficult till we begin again; and mother won't do anything

to make it less difficult."

"Jacob naturally expects his daughter to be married from her

home--and why not?" asked Jane.

"Because it isn't her home," explained Jeremy. "You can't talk of

Red House being a home no longer, and mother's right there. Red

House ceased to be a home when Margery left it."

"But if I was back that would be altered," declared Margery. "It all

points to my going back. And mother will live to see it was right,

if only for our children's sakes."

Jeremy, however, would not allow this.

"Don't fox yourself to think so. Your children haven't any use for

their father and never will have. He's done for himself with

them--all but Auna--and when she's old enough to see the sense of it,

no doubt she will."

"Jeremy's right," said Jane. "You mustn't think that, Margery. The

boys and Avis always did care a lot more for you than their father.

They never hit it, and you knew it, if Jacob did not."

"He knew it very well; but it didn't alter his feeling for them.

He'll do the right thing by all of them, however they treat him,"

argued the other.

"You may think so, but John Henry's a great fool for turning his

father down as he does all the same," declared her brother. "The

man's not made of patience, and as to justice, the less we say about

justice the better, when we think of you and look at you now."

"I've told John Henry to see his father; I've told him half a dozen

times on the quiet," said Margery. "For his own sake he should."

Elsewhere, by a coincidence, this very thing that they desired was

happening, for John Henry had met Jacob's ancient friend and been

firmly directed to pay his injured parent a visit. He obeyed, being

the more inclined to do so for private ends; and while Bullstone

first felt satisfaction at the visit, his pleasure presently waned,

since it became apparent that not concern for his father alone had

brought John Henry.

He hoped that Jacob was better; but this was not what interested him.

"'Tis a very good thing you weren't killed," he said, "and I expect

you'll have the law of that lunatic and win this time. He didn't

ought to be at large, for he's cunning and wicked. He may do

something like this again and bring it off next time."

"I've gone through all that with Adam Winter, his brother. You

needn't trouble on that score. It's all part and parcel of other

things, and there's no fear that Samuel would assault anybody but me.

I've told his brother that I won't take any step in the matter, or

have him put away. He's not the only one who has been revenged

against me, John Henry. At any rate he did it openly."

"It's all very wretched and I'm sick of the subject, and I wish it

could be dropped," said his son; "and it's a thousand pities that you

can't go farther off from Brent, or else mother can't be took away

out of it. There's a talk of her going to Uncle Lawrence, and it

would be a blessing if she did, for she's growing to a thread-paper

and getting as weak as a rabbit. Of course you can't go, I suppose;

but she might, and they ought to take her."

"Your mother's thin? So Auna says. It's a great grief to me."

"No business of mine anyway. But you must look after yourself

nowadays, for there's nobody else to trouble about you, and I think

I've a right to ask a few things, father."

"Certainly. Ask what you please, John Henry."

"Very well then. And first I'm very glad you've made such a good

recovery, and I'd have come sooner but for the mountains of work. I

hope you won't take it amiss, or think I'm pushing, or anything like

that; but, with you, none of us ever know exactly where we're

standing, because you do such unexpected things. I've always been a

good son, I believe--quite so good a son as Avis is daughter, anyhow;

and you've given her Owley, so I feel it's only fair, me being your

eldest son, if I ask for Bullstone."

"Owley's my wedding gift to Avis. She's going to be married and

going to live at Owley as you know; therefore it was a very good time

to let her have it. You're not of age."

"I soon shall be; and the eldest ought to have Bullstone."

"Why in such a hurry? I haven't gone yet. Plenty of time."

"You let Avis have Owley."

"Fight against your mean greed," answered his father. "Even your

grandmother won't approve lust for this world's goods. Go on with

your work, learn your business and trust me for the future. Remember

that I've got to think of others besides you. I've taken over

Huntingdon for myself, because a time will come some day, when I'm

old, that I may decree to live there--for the air and peace. And

then, no doubt, you'll have Bullstone, and Peter will own the

business at Red House. But there's Auna too. And I'm not past work

yet."

"If you could give me a written, signed promise for Bullstone, I'd

know where I stood."

"Give--give--give! And are you never to give? Are my children to

receive always and return nothing--no duty, no love, no respect even?

Have you ever thought what you owe to those who brought you into the

world?"

"I owe no man any thing," answered John Henry without emotion. "And

I never will. It's always the fashion, seemingly, for parents to

make a fuss about what their children ought to do, and expect them to

fall down and worship them. Why should I--just because you married

and had a good time with mother? And, seeing what life is, I don't

know that anybody need feel under any very great gratitude for being

alive. It was all in the day's work that I was born; you didn't

choose me, and a child don't owe a parent any thanks whatever for

coming into the world. And so far as the rest is concerned, you've

done your duty by me, and I've done my duty faithfully by you, and

everybody. I've never given any trouble--never got into a

scrape--always been straight and hard-working. And I deserve

Bullstone and ought to have it."

"What does your mother say?"

"She's understood that the eldest son had it. But I can't talk of

her to you, of course."

"Why not?"

"I'm mother's side, and God knows I wouldn't do nothing against her,"

he answered. "But this has nothing to do with her."

"How so, if all mine is hers?"

"She wouldn't take anything of yours, father, and never will. You

talk as if nought had happened. You seem to forget. But you can't

expect none of us to forget, while we see her every week. It's been

a fearful thing--cruel for your children and everybody. It will

never be forgot by mortal man I should think, and you can't expect

any of us to be exactly the same again. We're honest and we've got

our feelings and we've been through a lot. I'm sure you owe us

something. And if you're not going to let me have Bullstone, you

ought not to let Peter have the business. I'm your eldest son

and----"

"Learn what your mother thinks and come to me again," directed his

father. "All I have is hers, and it was always her wish, when first

Avis got engaged, that she should take Owley for her portion. If

she'd like for you to have Bullstone while I live, it can be. After

your mother's self, there's only Auna to think about."

John Henry cheered up and promised to do as he was directed.

"I'm properly certain mother would say I ought to have it," he

declared.

"I expect she would, and her word's my law. You'll be of age in less

than a year, so things may happen as you would wish. But I don't

transfer till the present lease has run out. It wouldn't do for you

to own the farm on which you're being taught your business."

"I know my business. I know full as much as Bob Elvin, if not more.

I've got larger ideas than him."

"I dare say you have; and now you'd best be gone. And you can see me

again when you've heard your mother."

John Henry departed and Jacob considered him. In the past he had

much resented similar applications on smaller subjects: the young man

never lost anything for the sake of asking; but now this large

request left him unmoved. He meant to leave Bullstone to his son,

and had no real objection to handing it over in his own lifetime.

For the moment this incident offered hopes of a message from his

wife. There might chance some thread in John Henry's demands to

serve for the business of drawing Margery and himself together again.

He was ever on the look-out for such threads.

CHAPTER IX

JACOB COMES HOME

The mother of Margery believed, with Augustin, that persecution is

the only solicitude the virtuous have any right to show a sinner.

She held that where the least doubt of salvation might still be said

to lie, it was better to torment than ignore, since this form of

attention will sometimes torture the wrong-doer into grief for his

wickedness, and so open the door to repentance and salvation. But

she was not often in such doubt and generally separated the goats

from the potential sheep without difficulty. The doomed she did not

ever persecute, since any attention paid to those patently condemned

was not only useless to them, but implied danger to the agent.

Of such, without the pale, was Jacob Bullstone, and now a situation

had been reached where one thing must certainly have happened, save

for the attitude of Judith Huxam towards him. Even despite her it

might yet occur and the issue still stood in hope; but success

implied that Margery would first actively oppose her mother, and her

power to do so lessened fast.

The double accident of Jacob's broken thigh and his wife's

indisposition delayed a possible union, and now the next step to any

such event depended upon Margery. By letting her husband know that

she desired to return, she might have shifted the responsibility on

to his shoulders, and so ensured the achievement; but she was still

anxious that he should not know, since she feared the violent steps

that he might take to bring them together. Moreover she desired to

be able to say afterwards to her parents that she went of her own

free will back to Red House, and that her husband had no hand in the

action.

Thus precious days passed, and while Jacob gradually regained his

strength, thought upon his daughter's wedding and hoped the event

might be the beginning of a slow and patient re-winning of his wife,

she was in reality won. Long years seemed already to drag between

Margery and her home; while in her failing health, the life with her

parents grew more and more distasteful and afflicting. She was

conscious of the change in her physical circumstances--more conscious

of it than her father, or mother; but she still believed that a

return to Red House would restore her strength. A situation, simple

in itself, was thus complicated. The man and wife wanted to come

together--because each, in a solitary heart, felt that only so was

life longer to be desired at all. An instinct of self-preservation

called upon Margery to return and she felt that, otherwise, her

fading life forces might not be much longer preserved. It was not

desire for Jacob himself, but hunger for the healthy environment of

home, that fortified her to get back to it. She had forgiven her

cruel ignominies and now regarded them as she regarded her anæmia--as

a sickness for which evil fortune had to be blamed. Jacob similarly

had suffered from a dreadful sickness, and now he was cured. Thus

nothing but religion stood between them to Margery's mind. She could

pity Jacob in some moods, and see nothing wrong in her desire to

return to him; while, in others, she still doubted, so far as he was

concerned, but did not doubt for herself. Then the conviction

increased that she must go back to Red House if she were ever to

recover, and when she heard, through Auna and her own brother, that

Jacob actually desired her to return, the last doubt vanished.

Bullstone's attitude resembled hers in intense desire; but he was

ignorant of her dangerous health and postulated a gradual ordeal--an

ordeal mercifully to end in her complete forgiveness and her

subsequent return. Peace might yet await them; but he was now broken

into a patience he had not known, a patience willing to leave the

future in his wife's hands. But there stood between them and any

such consummation the figure of Margery's mother, assured that her

daughter's husband was lost; that he was a man who could represent

nothing but danger to the community of the faithful--a man condemned

to the consequences of his unequalled sin--one who, since wickedness

is both contagious and infectious, must be avoided absolutely. To

approach such a man or seek communion with him was to challenge a

pestilence; and when, therefore, Judith had heard her child, in a

mood of melting, say that a wife's place was beside her sick husband,

she took alarm and girded herself to repel the danger.

Indeed, Margery became her chief care; she neglected lesser

obligations and she devoted much time to planning her child's

welfare. Upon the news of Bullstone's accident, she had hoped he

would not recover and, for a time, suspected that Providence had

chosen this way to put Margery out of danger. But now Jacob was well

again and about to return home; Avis clamoured for her delayed

nuptials, and Margery held that she might, on such an occasion, be

present, both in church, and afterwards, at Red House, if only for a

little while.

Her mother firmly withstood the suggestion, and by her strenuous

opposition convinced Jacob's wife of one thing: that only through the

road of secret flight would she ever return to her husband's home.

She knew now that Judith held it a choice between heaven and hell;

she realised that if she returned to Jacob, her parents would regard

her as eternally lost. The thought had shaken her at first, but she

found, on examining it, that her attitude to religion was modified

before reality. None had influenced her to this, for those whom she

met were of her mother's opinion, and opportunity did not offer to

learn the views of other people; but life and its present crying

needs began to change her outlook. She contrasted the things she had

been called to suffer and the unspeakable torments shed upon her

husband out of his own weakness, with the established convention of a

loving, sleepless and watchful God, who desires mercy better than

sacrifice, and is all powerful to establish that happiness on earth

the craving for which He implants in His creatures.

She was no longer concerned for her soul, while her personal griefs

served to show her mother's convictions in a new light. Thus, as her

hold on existence grew more frail, she recoiled with increased

revulsion from the dogmas of the Chosen Few. Mrs. Huxam had defeated

her own object, as religious mothers are apt to do, and by drowning

the wounded Margery in the billows of a melancholy and merciless

faith, was indirectly responsible for creating a new vision, wherein

failing nature still offered Margery some measure of promise. The

very escape in spirit comforted her and she was more cheerful for a

time; but she did not get stronger, save mentally, and her license of

mind alarmed Mrs. Huxam, who read these symptoms in her own light.

She felt that her daughter's unrest and doubt were the visible sign

of an inward temptation, wholly to be expected at this crucial

juncture in her affairs; and while obeying the doctor in matters of

food and medicine, Judith believed that the vital encounter must be

fought on other ground.

She was not as yet frightened for her child's life, but only

concerned for her soul. She determined, once for all, that Margery

should not go to the wedding of Avis. She now tried to wrest this

matter away from Jacob, and even considered whether the ceremony

might be arranged and hastened, while he was in hospital; but Barlow

Huxam would not support her in this. He pointed out that to take

such a step, which was possible enough, seeing that Avis and young

Elvin were amenable to Judith, would be unwise and likely to create a

measure of sympathy with Bullstone. For the postmaster had as yet by

no means bated in his bitterness; he did not desire any weakening of

public sentiment against his son-in-law. That such a weakening

existed already caused him some astonishment; but his attitude

promised presently to respond to a stimulus that would not have

touched Judith, for a measure of humanity, from which Mrs. Huxam's

sterner outlook escaped, leavened Barlow's opinions.

Thus at the crucial moment it stood, and then a first step was taken.

On a day in November, Jacob Bullstone came home, and Avis and Auna

and Peter met his carriage at the outer gates of Red House.

All, for different reasons, were glad that he should be back again,

and Auna chronicled each little incident of his return, hoping that

opportunity would occur to tell her mother about it. She hid her

young heart, which throbbed painfully to see her father so lame. But

he told them that was a smaller matter, which would mend yet, and, at

worst, not prevent him from presently riding again.

Peter did not rest until his father had been to the kennels, where

Jacob was glad to be. He gave his son praise, admired two new

litters of puppies and spoke with George Middleweek. George had

matter for entertainment, or so it seemed to himself.

"Old Barton Gill was poking about here yesterday week," he said. "He

told me he expected to find everything wrong and that he wasn't

disappointed. He thought the puppies were a terrible poor lot and

better in the river than out of it; and he said the kennels didn't

look so smart, by a very long way, as in his time. He took a very

grave view of everything, and at last he reached a point when I said

that, old though he was, I should feel called to break his neck if

ever I catched him here again."

"He's a ghost from the past, George," answered the master.

"Yes; and there's a few things less useful to busy men than ghosts

from the past--especially weak and silly souls like Gill," answered

Mr. Middleweek. "He's a ghost easily laid, however, and I don't

reckon he'll be back along in a hurry. 'Tis amazing how silly the

wisdom of most old men looks, even in the light of middle-aged

knowledge."

"The times move so fast," explained Jacob, "and the wisdom of the

fathers is the foolishness of the children. In fact there's only one

high fashion of wisdom, if you come to be an old man, George; and

that is to keep your mouth shut all the time."

"There's some old fools you can forgive," declared the kennel-man,

"but not old fools that bleat the past. Who has got time or patience

for them?"

Then, as the evening shut down, Jacob came into tea and found that

Auna and Avis had arranged a feast for him.

Now it was the turn of Avis and she led the conversation to her

marriage.

"I do hope you'll see your way to it pretty soon, father," she said,

and he promised her that the wedding was going to be his first care.

"Pray God your mother will be well enough to come," he hoped boldly;

and Auna echoed his wish, but Avis doubted.

"I'm sure she wouldn't like Bob and me to wait any more, even though

she's not very well. And I don't much think she would come, even if

she could," explained Jacob's daughter. "Of course there's no

getting away from the past, and granny would be a good bit put about

if mother was to want to come to Red House after."

"Grandfather's rather wishful for mother to be at the church,

however," said Auna, "for he told me so."

"And I'm sure Avis would wish that, too, and Bob also," declared her

father. He had rather dreaded home-coming, but the ordeal proved

pleasanter than he expected. Two men called together during the

evening and Billy Marydrew, with Adam Winter, dropped in, that they

might congratulate Jacob on his recovery.

Avis and Peter went about their own affairs, but Auna sat beside her

father until he bade her leave them.

"I made this here man come in with me," explained William. "He

weren't coming, but I said he'd be welcome for two reasons--firstly

to wish you a friendly wish, which was in him to do, and secondly to

see me home, because the night be blowing up for foul and I'm so

light as a leaf nowadays; and if the wind thrust me in the river,

there I should certainly bide."

They shook hands and Winter spoke.

"You know how much I've felt about this. It was a very terrible

thing to fall out and----"

"Don't go back to it. Don't let it trouble you any more. How is the

man? Does he understand that it was a bad thing to do? Does he

understand that he and I have both been out of our minds and done bad

things? Or he may argue, perhaps, that he was right to take the law

into his own hands. Anyway what he did to me was a great deal less

than what I did to you. I know--I know, Adam. It's one of the few

blessings left that time can let me talk in this stark fashion to

you. Where there's such forgiveness as yours to me, there's a great

foundation for friendship. Humble enough on my side. But it would

be well to know if Samuel has took your line in that matter and

harbours no malice, or if I must be on my guard."

"He's long since forgotten all about it. He remembers no more than

my bull remembers. He'll wonder to see you lame and treat you

respectful, same as he did before."

"That's good then. There's compensations for a weak mind if it

carries a weak memory, Adam. And yet, without memory, we can't mourn

our sins and better our behaviour."

"That's why the beasts that perish don't get any forwarder, Jacob,"

explained William. "Memory be left out of them, save in small

particulars. And so they just live, and their sorrow is a passing

matter and their happiness not much more than a sense of comfort.

And Sammy's terrible lucky in one thing, like all other lunies, that,

though he pays the price of his wits in this world, he's a dead

certainty for salvation in the next. You may be born without a mind,

you see, but if you're a human, you can't be born without a soul; and

though this world's blank for Samuel, in any high sense, his number's

up for the Kingdom of Heaven, since he's so sinless as a jackdaw, for

all his mischief."

"A deep subject," admitted Adam, "and I don't know as ever I looked

at it like that, Billy; but comforting for certain to them that care

for the soft, unfinished ones."

"Oh, yes," promised Mr. Marydrew cheerfully, "our maniacs will all be

there to welcome us; and in the light that pours out of the Throne,

my dears, 'tis very likely indeed we shall find that the softies were

often a damn sight saner than some of us, who prided ourselves on our

wits."

"That's true for certain," said Jacob. "I can confess before such as

you, though to some sort of men I never shall. But I can tell you

that I've been mad and am sane again--sane enough, at any rate, never

to trust my sanity any more. I was a very proud man, William, but

pride has left me. I shall never be proud again, nor proud of

anything that belongs to me."

"You never were that," answered Winter. "In fact, where you had the

right to be proud, you were not, Bullstone."

They talked together, and Auna, who had been sent away soon after

their arrival, now returned and poured drink for them. Jacob felt no

objection to saying things before her that he would not have said

before his other children.

"It is a good thing in my life to know that you can sit in this room

as a friend," he said to Adam Winter. "There's a sort of sorrow that

is not all pain; and though I shall never look upon you without

sorrow, I shall always welcome the sight of you."

"I understand. And may the welcome never grow less and the sorrow

dwindle," answered the other. "We've gone through a deep place; and

I've lived to gather from you that you were possessed, as many good

men have had the ill luck to be; and please God others, that matter a

very great deal more than I do, may live to understand the same."

Thus, upon his home-coming, there fell a fitful ray of peace into the

outer regions of Bullstone's mind; and, content for a brief hour to

live in the present and trust this Indian summer, he took heart for a

little while.

He thanked them for their visit and declared, presently, that his

physical wounds had been a good thing.

"To go short on your leg is a trifle, if it helps you to go longer in

your heart, and take wider views and rise up into patience," he said.

"I'm the wickedest of men, and yet I have got good friends who are

wishful for my betterment. And I never shall forget it--never."

"You're not a wicked man, father. Tell him he's not a wicked man,

Mr. Marydrew," urged Auna.

"Nobody's very wicked, my dear," answered Billy; "and nobody's any

too good. We're all much of a muchness, and good and evil be like

the berries on the trees---all stomachable to somebody. Good's bad

and bad's good according to the point of view, and only through being

bad, some folks reach to being good. To some nice people being good

is as easy as falling off a log--same as it is to you, Auna, because

you can't be any other; and to some equally nice sort of people, 'tis

a lot more difficult. The point ain't so much whether you be good,

as what you be good for. Some folk be so good as gold, and yet good

for nought; and some are so wicked as the devil, and yet good for a

lot. In fact 'tis a very wonderful world, my dear."

Auna laughed and presently the men rose to go home. Adam promised to

send Samuel to see Jacob on the following day. Margery had not been

named, but William alluded to her as he departed.

"There's always hope," he said. "I'll come along to-morrow and eat

my dinner with you, and us'll have a tell. And don't you get too

busy. You'll be a sick man yet, and your maiden here must look after

you so well as she can."

Auna promised to do so, and when Avis and Peter had eaten their

suppers and gone to bed, she waited on her father.

"I do all the things you do," she told him. "I lock up and put out

the lamps and everything, because Avis is too busy with her wedding,

and Peter don't remember little things."

She helped him to his own room presently and he found it prepared for

him in every particular. Then she aided him to undress, and he bade

her return, when she was ready to go to bed, and say good night. She

came, in her grey flannel night-gown, and jumped in beside him for a

little while.

He was very silent now and very tired. But he liked to listen to

her. It seemed as though the years had rolled away and Margery,

young again, was lying beside him. The very inflection of Auna's

voice was hers.

And while she talked, the girl was thinking of her mother, too, for

she knew what was in Jacob's mind.

"Go now," he said, for her presence became too poignant. "Good

night, my dinky treasure, and God bless you."

She kissed him.

"And I hope--oh, how I hope mother will soon be here beside you,

father dear."

He squeezed her hand.

"Dout the candle and go on hoping--go on hoping, my pretty bird."

Then she slipped away and the man lay awake for many hours before the

circumstance of his home-coming. Its goodness was precious; but the

loneliness and doubt tormented him.

CHAPTER X

FLIGHT

Margery fluctuated and on her feeblest days the desire to return home

became most intense. For her own sake she longed to be back at Red

House; for his sake she wanted to be with Jacob. Her emotions

towards him eluded her; but when she knew definitely from Auna that

his only dream on earth was to see her again beside him, pity woke a

faint ghost of the old love. Red House itself drew her, for she felt

that if the remainder of her life was to be spent as a sick woman,

she could be a more useful one and a happier one in her home than

with her parents. Though they assured her daily that their home was

hers, and dwelt much on the delight of the villa residence, soon to

receive them and Margery, she could win no pleasure from the thought

and her weakened mind shrank more and more from the robust opinions

of her mother and her father's forced cheerfulness. They were

incapable of understanding all that she felt, and now indeed she

lacked physical courage to attempt further explanation. In any case

she would be opposed. Therefore, with plenty of leisure for thought,

she matured her secret plans. They were foolish plans, for though

the idea of telling Auna frankly that she longed to come home and

leaving the rest to Jacob had more than once tempted her, this

obvious course she feared, as being likely to create greater

difficulties of ultimate reconciliation with her parents. So she

gave neither Auna nor Avis any hint of the action proposed, but

arranged with Jeremy, on the understanding that no word concerning

his part in the plot should be whispered. That assured, with ill

grace he promised to meet her on a night in November, one fortnight

before the day now fixed for the wedding.

Thus Margery planned her return home and hoped that the wedding of

Avis and Robert Elvin would serve its turn to distract attention and

smooth affairs afterwards. In sanguine moments she even trusted time

to conciliate her parents. That her father would some day forgive

her she knew, and that her mother must logically pardon in the

obedience to her own faith, she hoped. For Margery fell back

whole-heartedly upon the belief that she was prompted and driven home

again at Heaven's command. She found much consolation and support in

the belief that Providence willed her return. For her, as for many,

faith was only fatality writ in a more comfortable word.

It had been arranged that at three o'clock on a certain morning,

Jeremy and his trap should wait near Lydia Bridge, and that his

sister should come by the pathway under forest trees, beside the

river and join him there.

Margery conserved her strength for this supreme effort and, for two

days before it came, lived in a trance. But she was alert enough to

take more food than usual and preserve a cheerful attitude. Her only

doubt centred in the extent of her physical strength, and now on the

eve of her departure, as that winter day closed in under a cold and

frosty sky, she wished, too late, that she had asked Jane to meet her

close at hand, and pilot her through the night to Jeremy.

She knew that she could safely leave the house, for her parents

always slept well and would not be awakened by any sound that she

might make.

She sat with them that night until they bade her go to bed. Then her

mother ministered to her, read a chapter from the Bible, while

Margery drank her glass of hot milk, and so wished her good night and

left her. The hour was ten o'clock and she knew that nearly five

hours must pass before she would start. A little milk pudding was

always left beside her, to eat in the night if she awoke. This she

determined to take at two o'clock, before she began to dress. Now

the details, that seemed so simple at a distance, began to loom

larger and more complicated. There was, after all, so much to do

before she could get clear of the house, and the subsequent walk

through the wood by the river began to seem a great thing. For she,

who had once loved the night, felt nervous of it now. Again and

again she wished that she had asked Jane to meet her near the

post-office. She even considered the possibility of changing her

plans and fixing another night, before which this detail might be

arranged. But Jeremy would be at Lydia Bridge by three o'clock, and

if she failed him, he could not be counted upon for a second attempt.

Her mind ran forward. She would leave Jeremy at the outer gate of

Red House, while she,--about four o'clock, or earlier--would go

through the wood and knock at the door. There was a bell, too; but

if she could rouse Jacob without wakening any other, that must be

best. His room looked over the porch. If she were strong enough,

she would throw small stones and waken him.

She pictured him looking out and seeing her. He would certainly know

who it was by star-light and hasten to let her in. The peat fire

never went out at this season, and he would bring her to it and draw

it up. He would not say much. He would be like a man fearful to

wake from a dream; but she would speak. He must never know who had

brought her home: he would not be jealous about that, Indeed he could

not fail to guess. After all it would be very like Jeremy to confess

in secret--for the sake of Jacob's applause and possible reward. Her

husband would take her up to her room, then, and leave her to go to

sleep, while he dressed and began the day. And presently her

children would come to see her, while the familiar sounds would be in

her ears--the song of the river, the bleating of the goats and the

barking of the dogs. Puppies would tumble into her lap again--new

puppies that she had never seen; and old dogs she remembered would be

there to remember her. She would be very still and rest all day; and

then painful things must happen, for Avis, or Peter, must go swiftly

in the morning to tell them at Brent and allay their alarm. She

started out of this dream, for already she seemed lying in her own

bed at home. But she was not there yet. Thinking wearied her. A

clock struck midnight.

She was back again in thought at Red House presently. It seemed

already hastening to meet her, instead of withdrawing far away under

the stars and waiting for her to come to it. Her mind wandered over

little homely things and indulged in little homely wonders. How was

Jacob's linen? Auna mended for him now. And her own shards and

husks--Auna had told her that nothing of them was touched. Jacob

never allowed anybody to go near the great wardrobe that he had

bought for her when they were married. But her clothes had curiously

interested him. She doubted not that he looked at the empty rags

sometimes and took care of them. He had always treasured the russet

costume in which she was so nearly drowned before their marriage.

She concentrated upon Jacob and wondered why he wanted her, and what

he would think if he knew that she wanted him. Another hour passed

and for a little while she slept, then woke frightened lest she had

slept too long.

Elsewhere a scene of unusual vivacity was taking place which bore

directly upon Margery's affairs; and while she reflected and dreamed,

her parents entered upon a lively argument ere they slumbered.

Barlow had taken his lozenge and was about to sleep when his wife

addressed him and touched a matter already much in his mind.

"I'm a long way short of comfortable about Margery," she began, and

he declared the same uneasiness. That he should echo her doubt

interested Judith, but on questioning him she found that his fears

were not concerned with her daughter's soul. Her bodily state it was

that agitated him.

"Dr. Briggs told me only to-day she was going back rather than

forward. She wants a good shake-up in his opinion, and a very

serious thing is this: that she's not anxious to get well seemingly.

Doctor held that was a grave symptom, She's not set on building up

her strength, and she doubts if she'll ever do it, unless something

happens to throw her mind out of itself."

"Something will happen soon," said Mrs. Huxam. "There'll be the

excitement of changing houses."

"It isn't that sort of excitement, Judy. We're too apt to forget

that Margery was always a bit delicate. After the awful shock, and

before she'd got over that, she was snatched away from her regular

life and thrown into ours, which is quite different in every way.

Quite right and necessary, but we can't realise all that meant, or

all she had to go through, I expect. We only knew that she'd escaped

from the evil to come; but there was another side to her home life

which no doubt she's dreadfully missed and which we didn't know. In

fact she's confessed it often. And now she's got anæmia, and that's

dangerous in itself."

"I'm troubled about something a good bit more dangerous than anæmia,"

answered Judith. "The dust we're made of only holds together as long

as our Maker wants to cage our souls on earth. Then He cracks it and

lets the soul out; and that happens at the moment He wills and not a

moment sooner. Margery is like a swallow in September--restless,

restless. You can see it in her eyes--not resigned and not

interested in the villa residence, but thinking far too much of self.

The devil's at her, Barlow."

"It's nature--not the devil. And you must put the body first for the

minute, because the state of the soul often depends upon it. In a

word I'm not at all sure if Lawyer Dawes wasn't right. He told me

flat out, that if he could make it happen, he'd get Margery and her

husband friends again; and he said that was more likely to improve

her health, and save her life even than anything that can overtake

her. He's seen a good bit of Jacob Bullstone and he assures me he's

a changed man."

"And what did you say? Reproved the vain fool I should hope. 'Save

her life!' Doesn't Dawes know that 'He who loses his life for My

sake shall save it'? Did you tell him that? Did you remind him that

the only life that matters to a Christian is the eternal life?"

"I did not," confessed Barlow, "because, in the case of Lawyer Dawes,

that would have been vain conversation. And I may remind you the

specialist that Dr. Briggs had down to see Margery from Plymouth said

something to the same purpose. He's known for a very clever man

indeed, with many good and amazing cures to his credit, and he

understands his business be sure. Briggs didn't agree with him I

grant, because he hates Bullstone for his crimes, and wouldn't have

her go back; but Dr. Nettleship, from Plymouth, did firmly hold that

if they could be brought together it might be the turning point for

Margery and restore her health and peace. And, what's more, I

wouldn't be so very much astonished if Margery herself was agreeable."

Mrs. Huxam sat up wide awake.

"You properly shock me," she answered, "and I'm very sorry that I've

heard you utter these loose thoughts. For they show a weakness that

I never guessed was so near home. And now you say she's that way

inclined herself, and don't that show I'm right--that her spirit is

in danger? It's too true that she's in moods sometimes, when she

thinks of that man in a very improper manner. I've surprised her in

them, and we know Satan finds plenty of evil thought for idle minds.

But let it be understood once for all that they are evil and open the

way to deadly danger; and never let me hear you say again that it

might be well for her to go back to Red House; because if I do, I'll

change my lifelong feeling to you, Barlow."

"Don't say nothing you'll repent," begged Barlow, "You've taken this

in far too fierce a spirit. We only want to consider all possible

plans for making Margery well in body first."

"We have not to consider anything of the sort," answered Judith.

"Her body matters not a brass button against her soul; and if, in her

bodily weakness, the devil sees an opportunity, then 'tis for us to

hinder him, not help him. You're very near as bad as old Marydrew

and other people I've heard on the subject. Don't you see what

becomes of your daughter's soul, if she goes back to that doomed

sinner even in thought? You've astonished me a good bit by your

earthy blindness to-night, for I thought you were long past any such

weakness. Sometimes my heart sinks when I look at life and see, even

among my nearest, such dangers opening under their feet. But you--I

certainly did always count that you were safe."

Barlow in his turn was hurt.

"So did I," he said, "and with tolerable sound reason; and it's a

source of great pain to me that you can doubt it. You mustn't

imagine, Judy, that I'm taking any fatal attitude. I'm very well

satisfied that Margery can look after her soul; surely you've taught

her how to do that? And I'm also tolerably certain I can look after

mine. You mustn't get into the way of thinking you're the only

creature on God's earth who be out of danger. I'm talking of our

daughter's body for the minute, not her soul, and if the Plymouth

doctor says a certain thing--a man of great knowledge too--and you

have reason to believe that Margery may have some ideas in the same

direction, then I say it's well within reason, and religion also, to

turn it over before you turn it down."

"And I say that you lie," answered Mrs. Huxam firmly. "As to reason,

I don't know and don't want to know. I hate the word. I know where

reason will bring most humans, despite their Saviour's blood poured

in a river for them. And I will speak for religion and our child's

eternity and only that; and I tell you that any such horror as her

going back to her old life would shut the door of Heaven against her

for evermore. And that you know as well as I do; and I hope you'll

call on God to forgive you for pretending to doubt it. And I hope

God will forgive you, else you'll soon be in pretty sad trouble

yourself."

Mr. Huxam did not immediately reply, but the adamant conviction with

which Judith spoke impressed him. He did indeed suspect that from

the standpoint of religion she might be right; but he excused himself.

"A father is a father," he said, "and if natural longing, to see my

only daughter strong and happy again, led me to offend--well, you

must make allowance for human weakness, Judy."

"A father is a father as you say, Barlow; and a Heavenly Father is a

Heavenly Father; and if you're not prepared to say 'Thy will be done'

at your time of life, then I can assure you that it's a very hopeless

attitude. We want to make Margery's soul sure for God. We want to

know that when we're safe through the Vale, our children--the souls

we have been allowed to bring on earth--will follow us to our eternal

home, or go in front, as in the case of our Thomas. The order of

going is God's business, but the road is ours, and having the Light,

what shall be said of the human parent that would let a child stray

on the wrong road if he could prevent it? You're playing with

everlasting fire for your only daughter--that's what you're doing

to-night."

"Then we'll go to sleep," said Mr. Huxam. "I quite understand she's

in Higher Hands, and I also grant the duty to the soul is higher than

the duty to the body. We'll see her together to-morrow, and tackle

the subject, and try to find the right road for Margery--where body

and soul both will be looked after."

But his wife would not let him go to sleep. She was roused into a

very vivid wakefulness and she poured a long and steady flood of

dogma into Barlow's weary ears. His answers became fewer and she

talked him into unconsciousness at last; but she did not sleep

herself; and thus it came about that while Margery was dressing and

putting on all the warm clothes that she could wear, her mother,

fifteen yards away in the rambling, old house, remained very wide

awake, her senses strung to dismay and her soul in arms. She had

forgotten Margery and was now in deep trouble concerning Barlow's

salvation.

Mrs. Huxam left her bed presently and knelt down to pray. But she

found it exceedingly cold and rose and wrapped a dressing-gown about

her, before she knelt again. It was then, in the stillness of a

moonlit and frosty night, the time being a little after half past two

o'clock, that Judith heard the shutting of the outer side door below

her. There could be no doubt. The private entrance was closed

gently, and it must first have been opened. Barlow slept and the

room was dark save for the square of light where a white blind hid

the window. She drew on her shoes, put the nearest garment, a

flannel petticoat, over her head and left the room. She wasted no

time in seeking for Margery, but descended at once, reached the door,

found it unlocked, opened it and went into the street. The cold

struck her like a blow and she gasped unconsciously. Thirty yards

away, a woman moved in the moonlight and Judith knew that it was her

daughter. She followed instantly and ran to overtake her. Hearing

footsteps, Margery turned and, in a moment, her mother was beside her.

"Thank God!" was all Mrs. Huxam said, while the younger nearly felt,

then strove to hurry on.

"Go back, go back, mother!" she implored. "You're wise,--you

understand. It must be so. God has brought me to see it. Nought

happens but by the will of God."

"Turn--turn and don't take the Name, Margery. Quick--quick! You

shall come back. Quick then, for your soul's sake, before the frost

strikes you dead in the act of sin. The will of God--yes--His

will--to send me to save you--to head you off from death. The will

of the devil you'd set out to do--and I've come between by the mercy

of our sleepless Father. Come back to me--come back to

righteousness, Margery; come back and praise your Maker Who sent a

faithful mother to save you."

She used physical force while she talked. Their breath rose in the

air; the old woman's high-pitched voice echoed in the silent street;

Judith dragged at Margery, while she, numbly conscious of the great

cold, found herself not strong enough to shake her mother off. Mrs.

Huxam held on and prayed aloud, with a vigour that mastered the wife

of Jacob, until Margery felt her will perishing and her limbs

refusing to resist. One last effort was made.

"Think before you hale me back," she said. "Oh, mother, think! It's

either going home, or dying--I know it."

"'Home!' Where's your home? Don't you understand yet? Have you

drunk poison unbeknownst to us? Brace your body to do your soul's

work, Margery! There's only one home for the spirits of the just

made perfect. Trust your mother, who's wearied your Maker's ear for

you ever since you were born. Trust me, I say. Am I nothing? Don't

you want Heaven, if only for my sake? Well I know you do. Praise

God for His blessings and set your foot firm on the only way. That's

right--that's right. Lean on me and praise your Maker. Oh,

child--you poor, strayed sheep--did you think to go through this icy

night all that way to hell? But you'd have fallen frozen--frozen in

your sin--and then the loving Lord's self couldn't have saved you.

But you're safe now--safe, safe, Margery. The angels are singing

over the sinner that was saved. We should hear 'em if our ears

weren't stopped with earth. That's my brave child, with her hand in

God's and the powers of darkness routed. Off they go! You can

almost see 'em--and the Children of Light guide you home."

She half supported, half dragged Margery back; then she helped her to

her room still pouring out a flood of speech. Mrs. Huxam had grown a

little hysterical herself. Her daughter fell quite silent, and

submitted, like a child, to be undressed. But suddenly a moment of

futile passion loosed her lips and she turned on her mother.

"You've brought me back to my death," she said. "Understand that,

grasp hold of it. Your work to shorten my poor days and crush out my

last hope. I shall never rise again off this bed--never, never!"

As she spoke, Mr. Huxam, who had been awakened, appeared at the

doorway in a red dressing-gown and white wool night-cap.

"Praise God, father, praise God--lift your voice to the sleepless

Everlasting!" cried Judith. "The Powers of Darkness are shattered

and our girl's safe--safe!"

"Never did I doubt it," answered the man, and then he busied himself

and begged his wife to come to bed.

But Judith would not leave Margery.

"I sleep with her--with my arms round her--with her head on the

breast that gave her life and the heart that has beat for her since

she was born. Be off to your chamber, Barlow, and sleep no more, but

praise God. All's well--all's well now!"

Huxam, ignorant of what had happened, went his way, and Judith joined

her daughter; while under the sinking moon, where winter trees spread

their boughs above Lydia Bridge and the great arc of the waterfall

flashed with a thousand sparks of white fire, Jeremy Huxam tramped

the frosty road, stamped his feet, looked to the covering of his

horse, flung his rug over it, and growled words seldom heard from one

of the Chosen Few. For an hour he waited and several times paced the

footpath by the river beneath, to meet his sister. But she did not

come and, heartily glad of it, the man at last set out for home.

Under the darkness before dawn, he trotted off, his horse's hoofs

ringing noisily upon the frozen lanes.

CHAPTER XI

AFTER THE WEDDING

None but Jeremy and his wife ever heard particulars concerning that

night, and it was only through his sister's confession to Jane that

her husband learned why she did not come. Mrs. Huxam never guessed

who had been waiting for Margery; indeed she did not know that

anybody had waited, and felt little doubt that she had saved her

child's body as well as soul. For her own part she came through the

experience unhurt; but Margery suffered. Judith's excitation of mind

had apparently served as armour against the inclement night and she

was none the worse, while her daughter's debility and depression

offered an easier prey to the cold.

Margery had been chilled and, for two days, the doctor feared. Then

the immediate danger diminished, though the inherent source of

mischief increased. From that night indeed it gained upon Margery

and solved for her the problem of attending the wedding. She left

her bed again, but could not leave the house.

Then Barlow Huxam asserted himself and insisted that the date of the

wedding should be altered if Margery wished it; but she did not wish

it. She knew that her chances of taking any part in the day were

over. It was understood that Avis and Robert would spend five

minutes with her, on their way to the station after they were

married, and the wedding meal at Red House had been taken.

To this entertainment more were bidden than cared to come; but the

Elvins and Robert's friends sufficed to brighten the feast that Jacob

had planned. For him the knowledge that Margery was too unwell to

attend the service robbed the day of its sole salt; but he went

through with the business and carried himself cheerfully.

There came Robert's mother and various relations, William Marydrew

and others, including John Henry from Bullstone; but while the Huxams

attended the service, they did not, of course, proceed to the bridal

breakfast, nor were they troubled to decline, for Jacob knew it was

impossible to invite them. He ventured to ask the Winters, however,

and Adam was minded to go, but his aunt refused and prevented him

from doing so.

"There's some things that are seemly and some that are not, and women

are generally more understanding to know one from t'other than men,"

she said. "Your judgment tells you that you and poor Margery can't

well meet no more under one roof, unless it's the Lord's roof o'

Sundays; but with regard to this wretched man, just because that

thing happened about Samuel, you have lost sight of the truth of him

and seem to reckon there's no indecency in having truck with him. It

may be Christian, but it ain't manners. I've never yet felt as my

Christianity comes between me and my dignity, and I'm sorry you do."

"I'll not go, then," answered her nephew. "It can make no difference

to him."

Many, indeed, attended the service who had no intention of joining

the subsequent gathering. Jacob gave Avis away, and Auna was her

bridesmaid; while for Robert, his elder brother, home from sea for a

while, acted as best man.

The Huxams sat in church together, and Auna heard from Jane, before

the wedded pair set out for Red House, that Margery was not so well

that day. Auna kept her bad news until all was over at home and Avis

and Robert had driven off together. Then she sought Jacob who sat

alone, thankful to be alone, and told him that her mother was worse.

But she came to the sad matter slowly, dwelt first on all that had

happened, and declared that everything had fallen out very

triumphantly.

"Dear old Mr. Marydrew sat by me at the feast," said Auna, "and Mr.

Middleweek sat on the other side of me, and they were both very

cheerful indeed--even George, though George is no believer in

marriage."

"Isn't he, Auna?"

"Oh, no. He and Billy talked about it, and Billy says there's more

happy marriages than not; and George said the happy ones be like a

corncrake in the hayfield--oftener heard of than seen. And he said

that marriage was like living in a shop all the time--buying, or

selling--haggling and trying to get a cheap bargain on one side and

holding out for the price on the other. But I'm sure George don't

mean all the acid things he says about people marrying. And Mr.

Marydrew talked very hopefully of the next world, and says he'll be a

farmer up there and begin all over again. But he much hopes the

Happy Land won't want such a lot of muck spread on it as Dartmoor

does."

Jacob smiled, while she chattered; then she came to the bad news

gently.

"I hope that mother will be strong enough to have a little tell with

Avis and Bob before they start," she said; "but I'm terrible sorry to

say dear mother ain't very peart this morning. Aunt Jane told me

about it after Avis was married. I talked to her and Uncle Jeremy in

the churchyard, and they both said it was a very beautiful wedding in

their opinion, and Avis never looked so fine. But mother's gone

weak. There ain't no nature in her."

He sighed.

"You'd best to go in first thing to-morrow. And we'll send her some

goats' milk again. It did her good last summer. I made her drink

some red wine, once, when she got too thin years ago. Burgundy it is

called. I'll see the doctor about her. He doesn't like me; but he

won't fear to name wine for her if he thinks it would be a right

thing."

"Grandmother wouldn't suffer mother to drink wine, father."

"As medicine she would."

"So she would then," agreed Auna. "Medicine can't be wicked. And

Jesus Christ turned water into wine for happy people at a wedding, so

why shouldn't unhappy people be allowed a drop? I asked grandmother

that once, and she looked at me unkindly. She doesn't like me very

much."

"Because you haven't thrown me over, Auna."

"Throw you over!" exclaimed the girl. "What would there be left if I

hadn't got you? There's nobody else in the world, till mother comes

home again; and sometimes I think she never will, father."

"But sometimes you think that she's going to? You hope still, don't

you?"

She saw how eager he was and regretted her speech.

"Yes, I do sometimes. I believe, if we could take her a pair of

wings and tell her to fly, she would fly. And she'd fly straight to

Red House I expect. She don't like the post-office, and she don't

even like grandfather's new house overmuch I'm afraid."

"I'd be the wings to help her fly, Auna, if I could. She should fly

quick enough if I thought she wanted to fly--aye, though I had to

break down her father's walls to let her out."

Auna was struck dumb by the vision.

"I wish I could see her alone, but 'tis harder and harder to do now

she mostly keeps her room. A girl ought to be able to see her mother

alone at my age; but grandmother don't make me welcome now, and she

hustles me off for one thing and another."

"She thinks evil--that's why. She thinks you are on my side against

her, Auna."

"If she's against you, then I'm against her. I've stopped loving her

this good while now, because she won't let me talk about you to

mother. And I can see in mother's eyes that she's wishful to hear.

And it's cruel I can't tell her about things."

Jacob considered and weighed the gravity of the situation. There was

still no link between himself and his wife but such as Auna could

furnish.

And as Bullstone reflected, Avis and her husband came before Margery

at the post-office.

She was in bed to-day, but she sat up while the pair stood beside

her. They were going to Exeter for a week of honeymoon, and Avis

promised to see the cathedral and listen to an anthem.

"There's no Chosen Few in Exeter, so far as grandmother knows," said

Robert's bride; "but she thinks there will be no harm if we worship

in the cathedral o' Sunday. And we're going to the Museum also."

"Now tell me about the wedding. Did Bob speak out brave and clear,

Avis?"

"Yes he did then--so loud that one or two in the church tittered--so

Auna told us after. And I spoke out loud too. And grandfather and

father signed the book in the vestry; and pretty near everybody

waited to see me and Robert march out. And there was a lot of rice

flung at me in the churchyard by old Billy Marydrew, but grandmother

said he didn't ought."

"I do hope you'll soon be better," said Robert. "Mother's very

wishful for you to come up to Owley in the spring time. She's dearly

like for you to come, Mrs. Bullstone."

"And so would I like it, and perhaps I will, Bob," answered Margery.

"Tell me more who was in the church."

"Miss Winter and Mr. Winter," began young Elvin, but Avis stopped him.

"Hush, Robert!" she said.

"No call to hush, Avis. I'm very glad they was there," declared

Margery.

"They didn't come to Red House after, of course," continued Avis;

"but a rally of neighbours did, and Bob's mother and his sailor

brother sat by father, and Mr. Rupert Elvin, Bob's great-uncle,

proposed the health of the bride."

"And Mr. Bullstone gave us a proper banquet--I never saw such a

spread and never shall again I'm sure," vowed Robert.

"Father was pretty cheerful I hope?" asked Margery, and Avis looked

uncomfortable.

Robert answered.

"He was, because it was kept from him and all of us that you weren't

very well to-day. And he told me that he'd hoped you might be there;

but no doubt the reason against was your poor state, Mrs. Bullstone."

"Hush, Robert," said Avis.

"You must call me 'mother' now, Bob," replied Margery. "You've got

two mothers now; and so has Avis."

"And very gay and proud I'm sure," said Robert. "And I'll send you a

bit of good foreign fruit from Exeter, mother, to cheer you up."

"Don't you waste your money, Bob."

"You know Owley's mine, now, mother?" asked Avis.

"I do, and very good news; and I hope you thanked your father for it.

Very few young people get such a fine start in life. A very good

father to you, my dear."

Avis did not answer, but Robert felt constrained to do so.

"So I tell her, and I hope Mr. Bullstone won't never have cause to be

sorry. God willing, he never shall."

"That's right, Bob. Avis have got you to thank also."

"And John Henry feels that, if I have Owley, he ought to have

Bullstone," added Avis.

"All in good time I expect. Father will do fair and right by every

one."

They talked a little longer, then Mrs. Huxam appeared.

"'Tis time you was away," she said. "Your grandfather and I and a

few more are just walking down to see the train off, and the carriage

is waiting for you and the luggage is at the station. So be off in

five minutes. You'll be all right, Margery? I shan't be gone very

long."

She departed and soon afterwards Avis and Robert bade the invalid

'good-bye.' She kissed them, then heard laughter and cheerful words

below, looked out the window and saw the carriage with two grey

horses drive off. There was a white satin bow on the coachman's

whip. She crept back to bed again and her heart throbbed. She had

grown weaker, and she cried now, not at the emotion of the moment,

but before the whole spectacle of her shattered life and maimed

existence. In her present state she had ceased even to lament the

failure of her last effort to return home. Now she felt that was no

great matter. She was enfeebled, indifferent and had lost the will

to live. But there grew in her one desire: a great wish to see her

husband again and bid him farewell. None would help her on her side;

but if he received a direct message from her, it was certain that

Jacob would come.

She could no longer concentrate her mind for more than a few minutes

at a time, and was sleeping when her mother returned to her.

CHAPTER XII

A PROBLEM FOR AUNA

Jacob Bullstone now did a thing he had not yet and sought Dr. Briggs,

the medical man who was attending his wife. The physician had been

Margery's doctor of old and knew her well. He allowed himself great

latitude of language at the time of the separation and he entertained

violent dislike of Jacob. Bullstone waited on him and, without

concealing his aversion, the thin, grey-whiskered practitioner

snapped his evil tidings.

"There is no reason, I imagine, why you should be kept in ignorance.

Your wife, so to call her, is exceedingly ill, and the natural

weakness, which I was able to combat pretty effectually of old, has

now gone much further."

"She's taking iron I hope?" inquired Jacob, and the other regarded

him with aversion.

"Need you ask? The iron has entered into her soul--not the iron I

gave, however. You'll say I'm not professional and so forth.

Perhaps you don't want to know the reasons for this collapse--only

the extent of it. Perhaps you do know the reasons? At any rate I

can repeat to you, as I have a dozen times to her parents, that the

old tendency to anæmia, owing to certain obscure defects of the

nourishing system and so forth, have, under her fearful mental

trials, become chronic and are now developing the gravest symptoms.

A few weeks ago she suffered from a sharp chill during the recent

harsh weather. It threatened immediate danger; but I got her through

that. You cannot, however, minister to a mind diseased."

"Perhaps the one that gave the poison might best find the antidote,"

said Bullstone humbly, and the doctor looked at him with some

bitterness.

"There's no antidote for this poison," he answered.

"And do you feel any reason to doubt that the spring will see a

change for the better?"

"Seasons have nothing to do with it. She is little likely to see

another spring. The constitution has broken and the will power has

gone. She feels no desire to go on living, and I cannot create that

desire in her. Nor can any of her family."

"Have they tried?"

"Naturally. You do not imagine they want her to die. With anæmia a

patient gets ups and downs, which flatter hope, or increase fear.

But we are far past these stages of the ailment. Her vitality ebbs

with increasing quickness, and I cannot stem the tide."

"Do you not feel that a second opinion might be desirable?"

"I have taken a second opinion. Mr. Nettleship, of Plymouth, saw her

several weeks ago."

"I was not told of that."

"Possibly not. He came one evening and took even a more serious view

of the case than I did. The event has proved he was correct. He has

devoted special study to the disease."

"Nothing can be done, then, Dr. Briggs?"

"Nothing that is not being done."

They parted and it was upon the same night--an occasion that found

Jacob sleepless and in mental torment--that there broke upon him a

great, unknown fact. Through Auna it came, three days after the

wedding; but Auna herself had passed through a mighty ordeal and

suffered much tribulation in her young mind, before she could bring

herself finally to reveal the truth to her father. Long she fought,

until at last, lying sleepless and worn out, she determined to tell

Jacob what she knew. She rose, went to him then and there, found him

awake and spoke.

It had happened thus. On the morning after the wedding of Avis, at

Jacob's will, Auna set out immediately after breakfast for the

post-office, to learn how her mother might be. On the way she was

passed by Adam Winter, driving some pigs to the railway station, and

he stopped and offered her a lift. Thus the duration of her journey

was shortened and her heart was a little lifted by the man's cheerful

words.

As others, who had known her mother of old, Adam saw Margery again in

Auna--the slim, quick shape, the eager eyes, the steadfast

cheerfulness. And Auna's devotion to her desolate father touched

some hearts vaguely. The rest of the children had slipped away from

him and loosened bonds never very tight; but she remained and still

strove with youthful obstinacy to build up the broken walls of her

home. Her life was largely spent in going backwards and forwards,

and she seemed conscious of the significance of her task, for a sort

of gravity now belonged to her. Her young face was moulded into a

solemn expression and care clouded her eyes.

She told Adam that her mother was worse.

"Else I'm sure she'd have made a brave try to get to church

yesterday, to see Avis married."

"I'm sure she would," he answered, "but no doubt her thoughts were

there and you'll be able to tell her what a fine send-off they had--a

good flash of sunshine and all."

"Father's taking it hard, and I'm going as quick as I may, in hopes

to hear she's better."

"And I hope you will hear it. You'll be able to tell her what a good

wedding it was--everything just perfect if she'd only been there.

How does your father's leg go on?"

"Very clever he says. The pin bone was broke. And he's quite

forgiven Sammy, because he knows that he never would have done it, if

he'd been like other people, Mr. Winter."

"I'm very sure of that, Auna. Tell your father I'll come in and

smoke a pipe along with him some night pretty soon. He didn't ought

to be on his leg too much just yet I reckon--a heavy man like him."

At the station Auna alighted and arrived at the post-office an hour

earlier than usual. The accident proved fruitful, for her

grandmother, while expecting the girl, had no reason to suppose she

would appear for some time. Judith was occupied in the post-office

and Barlow had gone over to his son. Thus Auna slipped up to her

mother's room quite unobserved. She was delighted; but Margery's

appearance cast her down.

"Oh, dear, mother, you're as white as a dog's tooth!" she said.

Margery, however, flushed a little to see her.

"Come close, my pretty. I've slept ill; I'll be better presently.

I've always got a headache now and I can't let down my food very

clever."

"I've brought some of the goats' milk--fresh this morning."

"You're early to-day."

"Started early and got here ever so quick, because Mr. Winter was

bringing in pigs and gave me a lift. Grandmother doesn't know I've

come yet. Nobody does."

"Talk low then. She won't be up for half an hour, if she thinks I'm

alone."

"Have you had a good breakfast?"

"Ever so good. How's father after the wedding?"

"Very sad indeed, because you're bad. Oh, mother, he'd have given

all he's got in the world if he could have come this morning instead

of me."

"He'd like to come?"

"You well know it. If you'd lift your little finger, he'd come."

Margery smiled.

"When I could lift my little finger, I didn't. Now I can't,

perhaps----"

"But if he knew you even wanted to----"

"How's his leg, Auna?"

"Better and better. But Mr. Winter says he mustn't use it too much,

because he's a heavy man. But he isn't as heavy as he was. He's

thinner round the waist, mother."

"Is he? And is Adam Winter kindly to him?"

"Very kindly. He was cruel sorry for father's fearful fall. He'd

have had Sammy put away, but father forgave him, and Sammy's forgot

all about it now."

Margery reflected and stroked the girl's hand.

Their hands were very much alike, save that the elder's had grown

thin and white.

"You must bear up at what I'm going to say, Auna; but I'm terrible

afraid I'm going to die before so very long. Not afraid because I'm

going to die. That's nothing to mind when you feel like I feel; but

afraid because it will make you and father and the boys and Avis

sorrowful."

"Going to die!" gasped Auna. "No, no, no, mother, don't 'e die yet a

while! Think on father. If you died, he'd never be happy again, and

he's been unhappy such a longful time now; and if you died, he'd die

himself very likely."

"Perhaps I won't then. But I feel terrible bad. And you can tell

father one thing. He wanted to see me, Auna, and he wanted me back

at home?"

"Of course he did--cruel he wanted you back."

"But he didn't know I wanted to come back. You can tell him I wanted

to come back. It may make him feel happier."

"But why didn't you come? Oh, mother, why didn't you?"

"I tried to come when I heard he wanted me. Yes, I tried. Only it

was too late then. Things fell out and I couldn't do it. But tell

him I tried and failed. It may comfort him to know I tried, Auna."

The door had opened an inch and somebody was listening behind it; but

neither Margery nor her daughter knew that they were overheard.

"Mother, mother," cried Auna, "if he had known--if he'd only known!

Why, he'd have come for you himself, and the whole world wouldn't

have kept him from you!"

"There were reasons why he shouldn't know till I'd got to him. But

that's all one now. Wrong or right, you can tell father I tried. In

time that will be good to him to remember."

"So I will then. Oh, if you'd only come, you'd have got well so

quick! You must come yet. You must be drove in a shut-up cab all

the way. I'll tell father you tried, and then----"

Mrs. Huxam entered, without any indication that she had overheard

this vital matter.

"Why, Auna!" she said. "Here already--popped in like a mouse. Don't

you tire mother. She's had a bad night."

"Mother looks terrible ill," said Auna.

Margery had turned away to the wall, for a wave of excitement made

her heart beat painfully and she felt faint. Judith ministered to

her.

"I expect mother's talked enough," she said. "The doctor hasn't seen

her yet. I wouldn't leave the goats' milk, because it isn't the

right thing for her now. You can take it over to Aunt Jane for the

baby. It will be just right for him."

"So I will then," said Auna. "And I'll wait till Dr. Briggs has seen

mother, so as I can tell father what he says."

Mrs. Huxam agreed to this arrangement.

"You'd better go then, and come back in half an hour," she said

quietly. "I'll tell you what doctor says presently."

Auna kissed her mother, who lay with closed eyes, and after the kiss,

she whispered, "I'll tell him." Then she went downstairs, carrying

her little milk can. And when she was gone, Judith spoke cheerfully

to Margery, but made no mention of what she had overheard, though her

mind was full of it. The old woman perceived a tremendous peril

suddenly created by Margery's confession to Auna. A possibility

existed of evading it; but the possibility was slight and the danger

itself enormous. No instant disaster threatened, and yet the day

could hardly end without bringing it. She saw a great battle lying

immediately ahead and knew that for some temptations flight must be

the only successful opposition. For the moment everything hinged

upon Auna, and Auna was a broken reed in her grandmother's opinion.

Auna had ceased to be single-hearted; she had never taken her stand,

as her brothers and sister had taken it, on the side of religion and

justice. Yet now into Auna's ears had been given a tremendous

message--a message which might have been whispered by the devil

himself rather than the poor victim of Bullstone's evil-doing. It

was a message which, if it reached Margery's husband, would produce

instant and violent response. Once let him know that Margery had so

far condoned her wrongs as to attempt a return to Red House, and he

might yet confound all, even in sight of salvation. For, from

Judith's standpoint, salvation was now in sight. The message must

not be delivered if she could prevent it, and she would have arrested

Auna, locked her up, or taken any other direct action, had it been in

her power to do so. But that was impossible; therefore she had asked

the girl to return, in order to influence her and win a promise. At

best, however, she doubted the value of a promise, even if she could

win it. John Henry, Avis, or Peter she could have trusted to keep

any promise given; Auna she did not trust, by virtue of the taint

that made her put an erring father first in all things.

When presently her grandchild returned, Judith drew her into the

little, front parlour, shut the door and set about her task. The

doctor had offered scant shadow of hope and Mrs. Huxam perceived that

he did not think Margery would live. To her that was already an

accepted fact. But she knew many worse dangers than death.

"Auna," she said. "I hope no grandchild of mine would ever tell a

lie."

Auna reflected, looking straight into the calm, white face. Her

answer indeed demanded no thought; but her mind was already concerned

with what might have inspired the question.

She was so long in answering that Judith expressed displeasure.

"Surely, surely, you're not godless enough to want to think about it,

Auna?"

"Of course not, grandmother, I'm sure none of us ever told you a lie.

Why for should we?"

"The devil's very clever at putting people in a position where

there's temptations to lie. It's one of his favourite traps for boys

and girls, and they have to be warned against it from their youth up.

Now listen, Auna; and mind this: your dear mother's soul may be the

matter. Because first I may tell you, she has gone very weak of

late--weak in body and mind by the will of God."

"I know she's terrible weak in body, and she thinks she may die of it

even; but her mind is all right, grandmother."

"Her mind is all wrong," answered Judith. "That's what too well I

know, and you do not. And now her mind has gone wrong, then it is

for all that love her to be doubly anxious and careful."

"Yes," said Auna. "For all that love her."

"It's God's will that the strong should fight for the weak, and never

more than when the weak have run into danger unknowing. Human

weakness is the devil's strength, and he knows it, and where the sick

creature is there will that old vulture, the devil, be hopping round

about. I'm speaking of your mother's everlasting soul, Auna, not her

body. And it pleases God sometimes to let us worms do His work, even

in such a high matter as a soul. Not long ago it was the Almighty's

will that I should save your dear mother from a terrible danger. It

was my blessing and pride and joy to come between my child and the

devil, in all his fearful power and might; and a greater joy for a

human parent God couldn't offer. That's done; the battle was won and

your mother knows what I did for her. But while there's life in man,

there's hope in the devil, and he's not done with mother yet."

Auna was indignant.

"The devil never had anything to do with dear mother," she said.

"Nobody ever gave God less trouble than mother. She's

good--good--and who don't know it?"

"Listen, and don't talk to me in that tone of voice. Just now,

before you left her, it pleased the Lord that I should overhear what

she was saying to you. I heard her tell you that she'd tried to go

to Red House, didn't she?"

"Yes, grandmother."

"That was the devil, Auna--sleepless to catch your mother's soul; and

the will to go was only less terrible than the deed. The deed was

prevented; but now I've heard a very dreadful thing, because the will

to do wrong may destroy the soul, just as well as the deed itself.

And for that matter, Jesus Christ says one's as bad as the other."

She stopped to study the girl's face, but Auna only looked very sulky.

"And now," continued Mrs. Huxam, "you--you--her youngest child--have

the blessed power to help your mother; and God's waiting and

listening up in Heaven, to see if you will help her."

"I don't understand that."