stared at her and the anger faded out of his face.
"Why didn't you say so then? That's news."
He looked at Avis gently.
"You married Joe Elvin's son, Robert. Well, why not? Bullstones
have wedded with Elvins before to-day. I'm glad you're going to have
a little one, Avis, and I command this. If it's a girl, you call it
after your mother."
"I mean to," she said, "and if it's a boy, Bob wills it shall be
called after you."
"No, no--I forbid that. We'll have no more Jacobs."
But he relented before them and grew mild.
"Come here and sit by me and take my hand," he said to Avis; and then
he turned to John Henry.
"If I was harsh, you can overlook it. I'm not the man I was. I'm a
good deal fallen down from the man I was. I'm colder than the man I
was. I'll give you credit for saying what you said in a right
spirit, I believe it. That's your mother in you. But you swear it
was your own thought--not whispered to you by Billy or some such
well-wisher to me?"
"I swear before God it was my own thought, father; and I say again
that if you'll come to live with me, I'd be very glad indeed."
But Bullstone shook his head.
"I'm bound for the only place that can offer peace. Auna and I. And
I hope you'll make time as you can and come and see me now and again.
I feel friendly to you and Peter. You know that actions speak louder
than words. I hope it will be a girl for the sake of the blessed
name. I'll come to the christening. Ill do that. Mark me. I'm a
man of my word. You take all care of yourself, Avis, and don't be
too busy."
Peter spoke.
"Why for can't you go to John Henry, father? Then we should have you
in the midst."
"You know we're all right, father," added the elder brother. "It
isn't as if you'd see a lot to vex you, and things being done you
didn't hold with. You could come and go and keep your eye on the
dogs too."
"I'd like to believe that you could wish it. And I will believe it,"
repeated Jacob. "I'll make myself believe it, hard though it may be.
It's a sign of grace and I'm glad it came into your thoughts. And
Avis is going to have a child. That's well. Be sure to call it
after your mother if it's a girl."
He stared and nodded and they were conscious that his mind had
wandered far from them.
"Let's go for a walk up the valley, father," said Auna. "You always
like to talk best in the air."
"I'm going to do so," he answered, "but I'm going alone. You
children can stop together, and I'll be back for tea drinking. I'm a
good deal shaken by this great thought of John Henry's. It means his
mother in him, working up to the surface. And he can thank the Lord
she's there. She's in you all. Not that I can change my plans, for
my help comes from the hills you must know--such as it is. But that
I was wanted at Bullstone is worth a good bit to me,--good payment,
you might say, for what I've done."
He left them and they turned anxiously to Auna,
"Is he all right? Is it safe for him to go alone?" asked Avis; and
her sister answered that she need fear nothing.
"It's up and down like that. His memory fails him sometimes in
little things. Not in big things. It shook him to find John Henry
and you wanting him. But it's done him good already."
"He'll forget about it before he comes back," added Peter. "He'll
often go out to think over something, or say he's going to, and then
he comes back and you find it's slipped out of his mind altogether."
"But not a great thing like this," promised Auna.
"It's as much for you as for him," continued Avis. "It's not a place
for you to be lost in--Huntingdon isn't--and if you have to go and
live with him there, he'll very likely end by losing his reason
altogether, and it's very bad for a young creature like you."
"Don't you say that, Avis. I couldn't live away from him. And he'll
get better I expect. Days often happen when he's all right and his
mind quite peaceful."
"It would be a lot more convenient if he went to John Henry," said
Avis. "It's clear he finds it too wretched to stop here. I feel it
creepy myself--with mother's ghost in every corner, and in the garden
too. She was so busy that you can't see a thing without remembering
her part of it. But he wouldn't be haunted with her at Bullstone,
and we could make jobs for him, and keep him running about and doing
something."
"I'd much like it to happen," admitted Auna, "for his sake. It's all
one to me where I go, if I see him getting better."
"I'll keep it before him, and speak up for it so much as he'll let
me," promised Peter. "Of course it's what ought to be. But I don't
think it will. Because loneliness is his stronghold, and the
lonelier he is, the better he is."
"You might put old Billy and Adam Winter on to him," said his
brother. "He sets store by what they think. Tell 'em the fine offer
I've made, Auna, and see what they say."
"I will, then. But Mr. Marydrew is always very strong that father's
mind will mend up at Huntingdon. He says that I must be wits and
staff for father, and I will be. And he'll come through. Some day
he'll come through, if you and Avis and Peter can show kindness now
and then. It's kindness he wants."
"And that shows how rocky his mind is for the minute," declared
Peter, "because anything soft, like kindness, was gall to him in the
past. He was ashamed of the kindness he did himself. And now his
mind has shrunk. He dwells on little silly things and messes about
trifles that he links up with mother."
"When is he going to divide her clothes?" asked Avis; "it's a cruel
waste and no respect to mother to let things get moth-eaten and
useless, that might be worth money to the living."
"I've been at him," answered Auna. "He says that I'm to have the
clothes, when I'm grown a bit more, because I'm mother's shape; but
that's silly. Now you've been so nice to him, I'll get on about the
clothes again to-morrow and very like he'll let me go through them,
or ask you to come over and take what you want."
The girls discussed familiar articles of their mother's wardrobe, and
Avis indicated much that would be useful to her and the elder Mrs.
Elvin. Auna agreed, and while they talked, Peter described his
father's habits of mind to his brother. The elder took a gloomy view.
"I don't think he will mend," said John Henry. "I think it's a lot
more likely he'll go from bad to worse and become a raving man.
There's suspicions moving deep in him. When I told him about this,
you remember, he asked if I wanted to have him locked up. People,
with softening of the brain coming on, often look ahead in that way
and know, by a sort of fearful instinct, what's going to overtake
them."
They discussed the kennels and Peter's future.
"He's all right about that," declared Jacob's younger son, "but he's
sharp enough for Auna. He told me plain that he didn't trust none of
us but her, and that a hair of her head was worth the lot of us. But
now belike he'll change, if he remembers. It was a great thought to
offer him to come to Bullstone."
"If you want to please him, John Henry, put flowers on mother's grave
now and again," advised Auna. "Her grave will always draw him down
from the moor, same as it does now."
They talked until tea time, when Jacob returned, and John Henry went
to put in his horse. Their father was now calm and cheerful. He
said no more concerning the new suggestion; but he had not forgotten
it, for when Avis and her brother were gone and Peter at the kennel,
he questioned Auna.
"Can you tell me, faithful and true, that you had no part in what
John Henry said?" he asked. "Because if you, or any other, put it
into his head, then it's all in vain."
"Nobody put it in John Henry's mind, dear father," she answered. "It
was his very own thought."
"That makes it a valuable thing, Auna."
"I know it does. And Avis dearly wants it to happen too."
"And you? Would you rather be with Avis or your brother, or----?"
"Father! You know better than that," she said very earnestly. "You
and me are one, and what's right for you is right for me."
"So I think," he answered. "A very clever, deep thought in you to
say that we are one."
CHAPTER VII
WILLIAM'S BIRTHDAY
George Middleweek came to see old William with a message and a gift.
It was Mr. Marydrew's eighty-fourth birthday and Auna had sent him a
very fine ham, and a reminder that he had promised to eat his dinner
at Red House.
"You look ten years less than your age, Billy," said the kennel-man.
"We're a long-living race, George. My grandfather was thrice
married, and his last he took when he was eighty-two. Gave my old
sister the slip, for he was active as a kitten, and nipped off to
spend a month with friends in Somerset, and came back with a wife!
The woman thought she'd polish him off in a year or two and get his
bit of money; but she thought wrong. He lived for ten years and left
his cash, such as it was, half and half to me and my sister. His
third was a failure, though he was too proud to own it."
"You get into your coat and boots," said George. "If you be coming
with me, we must start."
They were soon upon the road and William asked after Jacob.
"Haven't seen him this longful time," he said.
"He's up and down," declared the other. "Says silly soft things one
day, so as you think he's growing tootlish; and then, the next, he'll
be short and sharp and seemingly all right. He's going through
everything that belonged to his wife, and Miss tells me that it
shakes him up. He's keeping some of her things for himself. His old
ideas--the stuff he was taught as a child--sticks out now and again.
But he's shed most of it I reckon. Life's knocked faith out of him,
William, same as it does out of most honest people. But the old
stuff clings to him. He'll often say he's a miserable sinner, though
in my experience it's only the good people yelp about being miserable
sinners. The real, right-down wicked men go on their way rejoicing."
"It ain't the sense of sin makes people miserable, because misery's a
matter of character, not conscience, George."
"A very shocking business to say anybody's born in sin," argued
Middleweek. "And it's an insult to honest matrimony in my opinion."
"You don't understand religion, and the fall of man, George,"
answered Mr. Marydrew mildly. "The mysteries of faith are beyond
you. Your mind ban't built to hold 'em."
They reached Red House, where Billy thanked Auna for her gift and
bade her go on with her work and not mind him, as he was early. But
she was glad to stop a while and brought down Jacob from an upper
chamber. His present business alternately excited the widower and
cast him down. He spoke and thought much of Margery as he handled
her garments; and sometimes he was normal and uttered intelligent
words; but not seldom his memory tormented him and he said strange
things.
"Every stitch dear mother ever wore puts father in mind of
something," explained Auna. Then Jacob joined them. His eyes showed
that his mind was roaming, but he remembered the occasion.
"A man can wish you many happy returns of your birthday, Billy," he
said; "because life's good to you still. You can live on very
safely, I reckon. But I'm different from that. It's come over me
strong of late that if there's a life beyond, I must get to it
soon--else there'll be more trouble. I must be there before a
certain other party, William!"
"Leave all that in Higher Hands, Jacob. The length of the thread be
no part of our business."
"I must be first, however; I must reach Margery before her mother
does. That's commonsense, because we well know that I'd get but a
bleak welcome if Judith Huxam had her daughter's ear before I did.
She robbed me before, and she would again. A fault in Margery--to
say it kindly--to listen to that old fiend. But I don't want her
mind frozen against me for eternity. I still live in hopes that
we'll be very dear friends, William--so far as a ghost man and a
ghost woman can be friends."
"And why not, Jacob? Where there's no secrets hid, the people must
surely come together in love and understanding."
"I say these things, because this is one of the days when I believe
in a future life. Some days I do and some days I do not. To-day I
do; and why do I, should you think? Because my mind is a good deal
filled up with my late wife; and if there's any sort of justice and
any sort of Almighty Being to do it, then there ought to be a
heaven--if it was only for her."
"We found the things she was nearly drowned in to-day," continued
Bullstone. "Oh, my God, Billy, what a mad shape life takes, if you
see it steady with a glance spread over quarter of a century! For
look at it. If Adam Winter hadn't saved her, then four lives hadn't
come in the world and my children would never have been born. And
what does that mean? It means that Winter is responsible for my
children as much as I am; and why for shouldn't they thank him for
their existence instead of me? Such thoughts go too deep for the
mind of man, William; but if we could understand them, they might
throw a good deal of light on life."
"Don't you be silly, my dear. It ain't a deep thought at all, but
just a brain-sick fancy. And you mustn't feel no fear about the old
witch doctor going to glory before you do. In the course of nature,
she'll be called, and I dare say she'll hate going, quite as much as
they uncommon good people often do. By the same token I hear that
she and Barlow ain't finding the villa residence all that they hoped
and deserved. And I'll tell you for why: you can't alter the habits
of a lifetime in a minute and not feel it in mind and body. I know,
because when I retired, though naturally rather a lazy old man, I
missed my work above a bit, and often did a good heavy day for a
neighbour--not so much on his account as my own."
"So you did," answered Jacob. "I'll bear you out there. You sawed a
good many hundred logs for me in your time, William."
"Barlow Huxam misses the shop and owns up; but his better half won't
own up so far, because that would be to say the wrong thing has
happened. And we well know it's a cast-iron rule the wrong thing
cannot happen in their tabernacle. Then again she's had a fearful
facer, and so's Amelia Winter. A very nasty jar has fallen upon them
and it have cast them down a lot. I heard it from Adam Winter
himself, and I've felt a good bit amused about it, though sorry for
Amelia, because it looks to her as if the end of the world had got in
sight."
"Whatever's fallen out, Mr. Marydrew?" asked Auna.
"Why, Adam, after taking a good bit of thought, have chucked the
Chosen Few and joined up with the Establishment. And, of course,
that means that Sammy have done the same, for what his brother doeth,
he does. 'Tis a hugeous shock to Amelia and she's very sorry for all
concerned."
"Uncle Jeremy's two little boys have been taken into the Chosen
Fews," said Auna. "Aunt Jane told me they are received in. So
they'll take the place of Mr. Winter and his brother, and the numbers
will be kept up."
"The axe is at the root," declared Jacob, "and I'm glad of it.
They're a self-righteous crew and it was well within Adam Winter's
nature to find them out and leave them. I hope I'll live to see the
end of them, and if that hag died, the hornets' nest would soon
empty."
"How's Huntingdon getting on?" asked William.
"I'm waiting for a fine day to ride up over on a pony. But not while
the floods are out."
"We've got everything very vitty now," added Auna, "and a nice load
of peat stacked by the door, and the new stove. The stores go up
after Christmas, and when the stores are in, our things go up."
"Peace--please God peace is in sight," said Jacob, "and I shall have
a good few of her treasures around me, William. I find they are a
great help to peace. Virtue goes out of these things. I was
wondering if it would give her any pleasure to put her favourite
junket bowl on the grave, William? Auna's against; but for my part,
after deep thinking, I wouldn't be over-sure. All's doubtful with
the dead. They may like to know the grey birds are hopping over them
for all we can tell. Nobody can say they don't."
"I think mother would a lot sooner that Peter kept the junket bowl at
Red House, with all the best china," declared Auna.
"And so I say," replied William. "I believe in very plain graves
myself. I like the granite stone. That's enough--just that and the
snow-drops to come up every spring. I wouldn't do no more. There's
nought so proper as the green spine grass on the dead."
"I'm training some white heather to grow there," answered Auna.
"White heather's for the living, not the dead, my dear."
They came to table presently, ate well and drank William's health.
Jacob grew cheerful during the meal and spoke with hope about his
family.
"It's a seemly thing for a man in my position to hand over his
worldly goods in his lifetime. Then the new generation comes to
understand the meaning and obligations of power and rises to it after
the manner born. Very likely, if all had been different and my wife
had been spared, we should still have withdrawn ourselves and let the
young come into their own."
He preserved an amiable and peaceful manner until the end of dinner
and Auna, heartened by his mood, exchanged many pleasantries with
William, George and Peter.
Mr. Marydrew praised the little feast when it was ended.
"I've ate far too much for a man my age," he said. "I'm 'filled as
the moon at the full,' Auna, and if ill overgets me, the fault is
yours. You'd cram your father's oldest friend like a Michaelmas
goose."
Hope arose out of that anniversary for the girl. It proved but a
respite between storms; yet she could look back to William's birthday
and remember an interlude of peace.
CHAPTER VIII
JEREMY
Slowly but certainly Barlow Huxam discovered that his wife was
slipping from her old self, and for a time he set it down to age, but
then he discovered other reasons for the change in her outlook upon
life. Stern she had always been and definite in her pronouncements.
She was not wont to criticise and wasted no time in lamenting the
evil around her; yet a certain quality of contentment had marked
Judith in the past, and now her husband perceived that this failed
her. She became very taciturn, and Barlow wrongly decided that this
silence arose from the fact that Mrs. Huxam had so little to talk
about. The shop had been her solitary subject outside religion, and
now, not only was the shop less and less upon her tongue, but the
master subject of life seemed sunk too deeply within her to offer
material for casual speech.
The disturbance that followed her daughter's death had apparently
passed, leaving only a new gravity; but it was not to their common
loss that the old postmaster attributed the change. Indeed Margery's
death had been a gain to Judith and resolved her greatest and most
terrible problem. Then the explanation of the change was, in his own
opinion, clearly revealed to Barlow, and he discovered it in his own
experience. For he, too, was changed and the expected thing--the
peace of retirement, the absence of daily demand upon his energies
and time--by no means produced that state of contentment and
satisfaction he had anticipated from it. Various causes combined to
frustrate his hopes and he attributed the disappointment to one
reason; whereas in truth the explanation lay elsewhere. He suspected
that Jeremy was to blame, and Jeremy certainly did serve to keep him
in an atmosphere of anxiety, from which he had supposed retirement
would set him free; but beyond Jeremy, and the too certain fact that
he was falling short at the post-office, another and a more vital
elucidation of Barlow's disillusion lay at his hand.
He was a man without resources and his resolute endeavour, to fill
life with his villa residence, had failed him. He worked hard,
because work alone made existence tolerable. He laboured in his
garden, cut the front patch into stars and moons and planted rose
trees and other shrubs. He toiled likewise behind, where the
vegetables grew, and raised crops for the house. He read books upon
the subject and proceeded intelligently. The work kept his body
strong, and the open air made him feel ten years younger; but these
energies still left a void, for Mrs. Huxam did not share them. In
the old days they had been one in every enterprise. They employed
two servants now, and Judith having trained the maidens into her way
and introduced them both into the ranks of the Chosen Few, found time
hang heavily upon her, the more so that her thoughts became darkened
with personal melancholy.
She never complained; she censured Barlow, when sometimes he grumbled
that there was so little to do; but she secretly sympathised with him
and long before he had arrived at the conclusion that an error
confronted them, she was of the same opinion. In his case frank
weariness of the present monotony began to whisper the need for
change; but her consciousness, that they were making a mistake, was
wakened by more than weariness. He wanted something to think about
and something more to do, and there was work under his own eyes that
called him rather loudly; she also wanted something to do--something
to deaden thought and distract it into other channels than those that
now bred an increasing gloom within.
For some time neither would confide in the other, or confess that
their present days lacked justification; but Judith had perceived the
unrest and discontent in her husband long before he began to suspect
her; and she waited, therefore, until his emotions broke out in
words. They had passed through nearly a year of the new existence
and tested its every phase, when Barlow's wife heard much that she
expected to hear, together with much that surprised her.
It was a winter afternoon and she had been reading the Book of Exodus
until a passage familiar enough gave her pleasant pause. The fact
that One had said the Sabbath was made for man and not man for the
Sabbath, had always given her quiet regret; but where authorities
differed, her bent of mind inclined Judith to the Old Testament
rather than the New. It chimed better with her own genius and
uncompromising principles. The earlier dispensation never failed to
find her in harmony; and when she read again the Commandment and its
drastic and detailed direction, she felt it was enough.
Consideration of the texts led to gloom, however. If the Lord found
one day in seven sufficient for His rest, how came it about that she
and her husband, while still in possession of energy and health, were
resting seven days a week?
Upon this question returned Barlow from the post-office and, unaware
of the matter in her mind, displayed some irritation. Not until he
lighted the gas did she observe that his face was puckered and his
eyes perturbed.
"Things are coming to a climax," he said, "and after tea I should
like to have a tell, Judy. I'm not at all content with a good deal
that's happening."
Mrs. Huxam rang for tea to be brought. Her dark eyes brightened.
"We'll have it and get it out of the way," she said. "And one thing
I never shall like here in the planning. The parlour is a desert
island for all you know what's doing in the kitchen."
They ate their meal, which was of a solid character and the last
serious food for the day, since they had given up taking supper and
found themselves better without it. Then the tea things were
cleared, and hardly had the door shut when Mr. Huxam began.
"It's just fifty-three years ago, Judith, since I, as a lad, took the
first telegram that ever came to Brent out to Beggar's Bush to the
master of the Otter Hounds, I was eleven years old at the time."
"And sixty-four now," she said.
"Yes, we're both sixty-four, and mark this--young for sixty-four.
Thanks to our manner of life, I wouldn't say that either of us need
count more than sixty in the things that matter."
"So far as this world's concerned, you're right," she admitted.
"Very well then. And now don't get upset or nothing like that; but
I'm going to say this: that taking one thing with another, I feel
terrible doubtful if our life in this residence is all it might be,
or even all it should be."
Mrs. Huxam stared at him with deep interest.
"I half thought your views had settled down. When did this come over
you?" she asked.
"It came, as such things do come--gradual. Here a little and there a
little, till I was surrounded by a cloud of witnesses, Judy. Granted
for the sake of argument--though I won't grant it for any other
sake--that we was a bit over-moiled with work and worry, and wanted
to get away from the shop and the post-office for a rest and
refreshment. Granted we did--what then?"
"Then we've had it," she declared. "We've had a year of it."
"Exactly so; and I'm like a giant refreshed with wine. And I should
say you, in your quieter way, was up for anything also. For my part,
even if all was suent and just so with the shop--which it is not--I'd
be exceeding pleased to go back thereto, and feel myself in the heart
of life and at the helm of my own ship again."
She raised a question, though she knew the answer.
"When you say things are not 'just so,' would you mean Jane, or
Jeremy?"
"Jane's all right, as far as it's humanly possible with her growing
family. Another coming in April I hear. But she does pretty well,
though the stocks are far too low and, of course, she doesn't
understand buying; but with regard to Jeremy, it's idle to pretend,
and for that matter I won't pretend. He's letting it down--not out
of malice, of course, but simply for the reason he lacks the needful
qualities. Nobody ever had a better shop manner and a kinder heart,
and nobody was ever more wishful to please his customers; but smiles
and cheerful remarks about the weather don't take the place of the
things people come into a shop to buy; and when a person hears that
Jeremy's out of this, or out of that, or don't keep a thing in stock,
it won't open the till for him to say the corn is coming on nice, or
ask a woman how her baby is. When people want to buy needles, it
ain't no manner of use telling them you've got a fine assortment of
pins. Jeremy's all right, in a manner of speaking, so long as he's
got a better to boss him. The spirit is willing, but the brain isn't
built for all the work that must go on out of sight if a business is
to pay. In a word he ought to be in somebody else's shop, not his
own."
"He's going to let it down."
"He has let it down, and I tell you, when I run over the accounts and
lend Jane a hand with the books, my heart bleeds. To see what we
made so fine and four-square and the foremost affair in Brent going
back, and to know Hasking, at the corner, and that little old maid
with the Berlin wools and gim-cracks--Miss Moss I mean--to know such
as them are lapping up custom and can find what Jeremy can't--it's a
punishing thing. Very soon I shall keep out of the shop, or else my
temper will suffer and I may say what I should be sorry to say."
"I know how you feel about it. My fingers itch every time I pass the
window and I want to fly to the shelves when a customer comes in; but
well I know that if I did, I'd find little but empty cardboards."
"And no law nor order," murmured Barlow. "Not a thing in its place
and many a melancholy five minutes wasted in hunting for what ain't
there to find. Last autumn a lot of holiday people were about and
I've seen strangers come into the shop full of hope for some everyday
thing--socks for their children or sunbonnets or elastic or what not;
and then Jane and Jeremy would go pecking about, like a pair of birds
in a strange field, and hope would fade off the faces of the
visitors, and they'd just creep out. And very possibly, ten minutes
after they were gone, what they wanted would be found."
"An unexpected chastening for us," said Judith.
"I know you find it so," he answered, "but what I feel is that the
situation may not be past praying for; and that brings me to the
tremendous idea that's taking shape in my mind. It came over me like
a flame of fire last time I was with the Chosen Few. I thought of
what used to be, and my manhood rebelled, and a voice seemed to say,
'It's not too late--it's not too late.'"
He looked at his wife and she nodded and wiped her spectacles but
said nothing. Still he fenced with the subject, though she knew to
what he was coming.
"How is it you sleep so bad nowadays?" he asked. "I'll tell you,
since you don't know. For this reason, because the residence faces
different from the old home, and there's a lot more light and air in
our present chamber, and the noise of the wild birds singing of a
morning strikes in upon you. In our old bedroom we were much more
favourably situated, and custom is everything, Judy, and I very much
doubt if you can sleep in one room for forty years and more and ever
take kindly to another. And I'll be bold to say that if you was back
in our old room you'd know sleep again and wake fresh as the dew on
the fleece. All of which only points one way."
"Jeremy was saying not so long ago that he felt to be in a good deal
of need of change," murmured Mrs. Huxam. "Not grumbling, or anything
like that; but down-daunted and weary. He's getting to look too old
for his years in my opinion. Patient and sensible and no temper, but
a bit under the weather."
"As we all are when we're over-weighted," answered Barlow. "And if
he wants a change, and Jane wants a bit of peace and quiet against
April, then I say to you in all seriousness that it's well within our
power to let 'em have a change."
"Where to?"
"To the residence! Let 'em come here for a few months, and he can do
the garden and Jane can look after her family; and you and me will go
back to town. I feel, for my own part, that it would do me a power
of good, because messing with rose-bushes and French runner
beans--after all it's not man's work for a man like me. But I'm not
putting myself forward. I'm thinking a lot more about you, and I
well know time's hanging terrible heavy on your hands, else you
wouldn't do such a lot of reading and look so wisht over it."
"You voice a good bit that's in my own mind. You can think too much.
I think too much; and thought often takes you into places where the
spirit had best not to be. We'll make it a matter of prayer if
you're in earnest."
"I have been making it a matter of prayer since Christmas," he
replied. "I've been taking the thing to the Throne ever since I knew
the game was up, so far as Jeremy was concerned. And it wasn't until
the prayer was answered that I've broached it to you. I see my way
very clear indeed if you do. But your word's my law now as always.
The only problem that rose before me was this house, and that won't
run away because we go back to the post-office in the fulness of our
strength. Put them in here for a few months, and then, when the
Lord's solved the position so far as they're concerned, we can let it
for the summer, furnished, for very fair money indeed."
"It's almost too good to be true in my opinion," she said.
"Far from it," he assured her. "It can come true in rather less than
no time if you think it ought."
"I'll set it before my Maker, Barlow."
"I'm sure you will," he answered with confidence, "and if you and Him
don't see eye to eye, it will be the first time."
He was much elated, for he felt that all must now happen as he
desired; and then further fortune fell out to assist the project, for
his son came over after closing time, and arrived at a moment
perfectly chosen by chance to affirm the situation for Mr. Huxam.
The ineffectual Jeremy trailed his attractive person before his
parents, announced that he had come to see his mother and declared
that he was very tired; whereupon Barlow judged it politic to leave
them for a time, feeling in no doubt as to the nature of his son's
mood.
Jeremy began with his usual tact and sympathy.
"Father tells me you don't seem quite yourself, and I was a good deal
put about to hear it," he said.
She nodded.
"Who is quite themselves as you call it?" she asked. "While we're in
the flesh, we can't be quite ourselves, Jeremy. Ourselves belong
somewhere else far beyond this Vale."
"I know--I know it better and better, as I grow older, mother. I'm
in sight of forty now, remember, and if I haven't found out this life
is a Vale and no more, it's a pity. Why don't you go down to Uncle
Lawrence for a bit and get some sea air?"
She shook her head.
"My body is strong enough--too strong in a sort of way. For it
shakes the soul a bit, Jeremy, to see the body living in idleness
when it might be doing something useful."
"You've done your mountain of work I'm sure."
"So I have then, but maybe there's a molehill of work still left in
me. I'm not easy about it and your father's not easy about it
either."
"As for me," he answered, "work's beginning to tell. Jane, catching
the light in my hair a few days ago, broke it to me that there's a
little bald spot showing to the naked eye on my crown. The beginning
of the end I suppose. I'm a very weary man indeed."
"Are you?"
"Yes, mother. My nature properly calls out for rest. I don't solve
the problems of life so easy as I did."
"What's the matter then?"
He did not immediately reply, but changed the subject.
"Have you heard what that man, Jacob Bullstone, has done? He made
over Bullstone Farm to John Henry on his twenty-first birthday; and
he's going to give Red House and the business to Peter presently."
"Yes--not his work but the Lord's. 'The wealth of the sinner is laid
up for the just' in Bible words."
"Now there's only Auna of them four--Margery's children."
"I had very near given up hoping for Auna; but that was wrong. Of
all the souls I've helped to bring in this world, Auna's the only
doubtful one, and I'm going to fight again in that quarter."
"She cleaves to her father, and he's dragging her up to that den on
the moors. A very wrong thing, mother."
"Very wrong, and little hope for Auna till we get her away. The time
may come. She's much in my mind."
"I went to Plymouth last week to buy a few odds and ends--not for
myself--and I looked in and had a dish of tea with Uncle Lawrence.
He's getting a lot older, I find, and a lot less peart than he was.
Margery's death hit him very hard."
"No it didn't. He's too steadfast to be hit by the death of a saved
soul. He's up home seventy, and his heart is weak, because he lived
a very hard life in early manhood following the sea."
"Seventy's nothing for a Pulleyblank. I wonder what he's done with
his money, now that poor Margery's gone home."
"I couldn't tell you."
"By rights, me being nearest, I ought to have it."
"He may see it like that."
"I took occasion to tell him that all Margery's children was well
provided for--not so mine."
"I don't like this," said Mrs. Huxam. "To be doubtful about your
children's welfare is next thing to being godless, Jeremy. You're
talking in a very loose sort of way, and to speak, or think, of your
uncle's money is indecent."
"Then I'm sorry I so far forgot myself as to do so," he answered at
once. "It wasn't for myself; and I'm well able and very willing to
look after my own. But there's a cloud. I don't mean Teddy, who
will never have the full use of his legs and be a care all his life.
He came from God like that, and I can face him according and labour
double tides for him if needs must; but I mean a passing thing,
though very serious I'm afraid."
"What is it then?"
Again he evaded the great matter and dallied.
"I'll tell you, of course, mother. I'm not a man to run away from
trouble. It came over me, strangely enough, in the churchyard, where
I went on Sunday afternoon with my sons past Margery's grave. And I
properly hate that stone Bullstone has stuck there. It oughtn't to
be allowed. And he's set wild plants upon it--just moor weeds.
Father's greatly vexed, as well he may be."
"What does it matter? It's a weakness of the weak to garden on
graves and fidget over the dust of the dead. Let it go."
"Very different to my brother's grave--so dignified and all that.
The face wants a wash: it's gone green, and next Saturday I'll go up
and rub it."
Mrs. Huxam had set words from the Wisdom of Solomon on the tomb of
her dead son and Jeremy brought them to her mind. She looked back
through the years, saw again the sturdy boy, who had died doing his
duty, and quoted:
"'He being made perfect, in a short time fulfilled a long time: For
his soul pleased the Lord; therefore hasted He to take him away from
among the wicked.'"
She kept silence a few minutes, then returned to Jeremy's affairs.
"And what is it that came to you in the churchyard?"
"A very sad shock," he answered. "I did most firmly believe and
think, when I followed you and father at the post-office, that I'd
come to harbour after all my storms, and was taking up the work the
Lord had all along meant me to do. I brought all my strength and a
properly prayerful spirit to the great task, and I will say of Jane
that she's done her very best from the first and put all she knows
into the business. We've been faithful, mother; but the bitter
English of it is that faith ain't enough, and work ain't enough, and
sleepless thought and care ain't enough--not in a linen-draper's.
There's something above all that, and you and father had it, and I
and Jane have not. I've fought against the truth and I've not spared
myself; but there it is--just the final touch that makes the
difference between success and failure. In a word, I've still to
find the vital thing I'm made to do. And, as I went through the
churchyard, I felt a sudden pang that I was still a wanderer. I
wouldn't believe it at first, but Jane's known it for months and I'm
very much afraid that father has. There's an inclination in father
to be short and sharp with me, and it has given me many a heartache
on the quiet. And now, such is the state of my nerves, that weak
nature properly drives me out of the shop on many a day when I ought
to be in it. The scent of haberdashery has got to be a curse and
puts me off my food."
"It was the same with the smell of the greengrocer's."
"Exactly the same," admitted Jeremy, "and I have come to the
conclusion that there's only one shop smell I could ever be easy
under; and that's a chemist's. Strong and varied though it is, it
soothes. I've been into the chemist's a good deal lately--for
sleeping medicine. I must sleep, else I shall be ill. And in the
chemist's a calm comes over me. And if I was in a position to do it,
I'd take up the subject from the beginning, and burn the midnight
oil, and qualify to be a chemist with the sweat of my brow. For
that's where the Hand points, mother; and the sad thing is that I was
never allowed to see it years ago!"
"Your father and me will turn it over," said Mrs. Huxam. She was
neither annoyed nor indignant. All her values changed and her
judgment proceeded on a modified code when Jeremy was the subject.
"This may be meant," she continued. "There are changes in the air.
I wouldn't say but what everything will work out pretty much as you
might wish."
"I know what happens will be for the best, and if I must stop where I
am, I shall bite on the bullet," answered Jeremy. "Life is real, and
never more so, it seems, than when you're in sight of forty. But the
idea of being a dispensing chemist--it's like a ray of light through
the encircling gloom, mother. There's such dignity to it--a learned
profession you might say--and such a power of well-doing! And if, in
your deep judgment, that was really hidden all along in the far
future for me, then I should devote all my spare time to study, and
rise up early and late take rest, till I'd mastered its secrets and
passed my examinations. And once launched into that, there's no
doubt I should be a changed man."
"You'd better try some paraffin oil if your hair's falling out," said
Mrs. Huxam.
CHAPTER IX
EXODUS
Jacob Bullstone suffered a mental relapse before the time of his
departure and his friends were sore put to it. They restrained his
violence with difficulty. He took no thought for himself, endured
much physical hardship and wearied his body. The preliminary
journeys to Huntingdon were endless and he tramped, or rode, backward
and forward needlessly. Sometimes Auna accompanied him, but oftener
he went up alone, on each occasion carrying small boxes, or parcels.
Only two persons hoped and believed that Bullstone was right in
following his impulse. Billy Marydrew held to this opinion and
Jacob's younger daughter agreed with him. Auna faced the ordeal of
the coming isolation without fear. In his darkest moments her father
did not frighten her and she had by long and close application
learned how best to calm his spirit and minister to unspoken needs.
William called at Shipley Farm three days before his friend left Red
House, that he might see Adam Winter. For Winter was helping with
Bullstone's move. He had lent a cart and would drive it, by a
circuitous route that a cart might make from the valley to the
heights.
"He's growing childish in my opinion," said the farmer. "His rages
are much like a boy's; and yet out of them will flash deeper sense
than ever he spoke when he was a happy man. I've known the zanies to
say very true things. I've heard my own brother do it. Those beyond
comfort themselves can often speak a comfortable word for other
people."
"A luckless wretch," commented Amelia. "I wouldn't say but he'll do
something red before he's finished. He rolls his eyes--a cruel, bad
sign--and George Middleweek says there are days when only Auna dare
go near him."
"He's wading through deep waters," admitted Winter, "and we people
not called to endure such torment must be patient and prayerful for
him."
"He cussed God yesterday," said Amelia, "and George Middleweek heard
him do so."
"Think nothing of it," urged Mr. Marydrew. "King David and many
another noticeable man have done the same and yet been saved alive."
"The Almighty's wrath properly eats up the ungodly," declared Amelia.
"And a very solemn and teaching sight it is for us."
"His patience be greater than His wrath, else not a man or woman
could escape," answered William.
"He knows the end from the beginning, and stuff meant for the undying
fires won't go nowhere else, patience or no patience," asserted
Amelia stoutly; while Mr. Marydrew laughed.
"Why, my dear, you'll be so bad as the old witch doctor herself!
What the mischief do you know about the Everlasting's bonfires? Or
what goes into 'em, or what don't? No doubt 'tis such fierce
opinions be making Adam here escape to the Church of England."
"He'll come back," she replied, looking at her nephew. "He'll soon
have enough of that."
"Wisdom needn't be at odds with charity," said Adam. "The Son of Man
came to seek and to save that which was lost."
"Exactly so--not to burn it," declared Billy. "Think how we look
upon some poor, distracted animal, Amelia--a cow that's dropped a
dead calf, or a robbed bird. Almighty God have put His finger into
Jacob's brain for the minute, but it don't follow He won't take it
out again. I say the moors will tame him and bring him peace. And
mind, Adam, to be very careful carrying his cuckoo clock up over.
The clock belonged to his wife and Auna tells me that the sound have
a very kindly effect upon him."
"He made a separate journey with the clock himself," answered Winter.
"I rode there Sunday, to try and trace out the cart-track. By good
chance it's fairly dry going for the time of year. Huntingdon was a
proper old rogues' roost when Veale, the warrener, left; but
Bullstone have put in a lot of work and got it all whitewashed and
water-sweet. He's going to live a labourer's life--everything plain
and simple."
"May he soon go out of it and his poor child get back among civilised
people," hoped Amelia. "You can't wish anything kinder for that man
than death."
"Don't you forget the big, seedy cake for Auna, however," prompted
Adam. "I make my first journey for him mostly with stores. He's
laying in a lot of tinned stuff, in case they should be snowed up.
And I believe he'd like for that to happen."
The great day came at last and the weather proved unpropitious. A
heavy fog descended upon the moors and Middleweek, Peter and Adam
Winter all advised Jacob to postpone departure. But he would not.
Everything was ready and he determined to go.
"I could make the way blindfolded," he said, "and I'll walk in front,
and you can come with the carts behind."
They set forth accordingly and Jacob, who took leave of his home
without emotion, led the way. One old dog accompanied him and Auna
had begged for more dogs later on.
The procession was soon gulfed in the mist, and long before the party
reached Huntingdon, every member of it had become wet through. But
Bullstone exhibited an amazing good temper. None present had seen
him so cheerful for many days. He made no mistake about the way and
when at last the white face of the cottage stared suddenly out of the
fog and the naked limbs of the sycamore tree loomed above it, Winter
was amazed.
"How you done it I can't say," he assured Jacob; "know the moor as I
do, I was lost utterly before we'd gone half a mile."
They lighted a fire and dried themselves, while Peter boiled tea and
Auna, at her father's direction, went to her own chamber to change
her clothes. Bullstone's first act was to wind up his cuckoo clock.
Then they made a meal and ate heartily while the weather grew worse.
The fog banks rolled off to the lower ground and heavy rain began to
fall. They worked with a will, that Peter, George and Winter might
return before night fell. Such furniture as Bullstone had selected
for his new home was dragged into the house, where Auna dried it.
They made no attempt to order things, but just fetched in the
contents of the carts and stacked all in the passage and little
chambers.
From above came hammering, for Middleweek insisted on putting up the
two bedsteads they had brought. They toiled mightily while the rain
beat down and the foul day sank to its close. At four o'clock all
was done and the carts started to get homeward in the last of the
light.
The partings were brief; indeed Jacob did not say "good-bye" at
Huntingdon, for he insisted on returning With them to a certain spot.
Once there, a track might be picked up that would bring them to their
road. He cared not for the weather, preserved his contented
demeanour and expressed very hearty gratitude to Adam, to Middleweek
and to his son for their good offices.
He was excited and thanked them all again and again.
"I'll make it up to you," he said. "It's done me a power of good to
see what man will do for his fellow-man at a pinch. Don't think I'll
forget such fine service. My turn will come to repay."
As they parted he indicated his intentions. It was clear that he
proposed no temporary absence from his neighbours.
"Come the spring we shall meet again, no doubt," he said. "I don't
want anybody up over for a couple of months or more. And if there
are letters for me, show them to George, Peter, and answer them
between you as you think fit. I'll open no more myself."
"Us'll get news of you afore that I hope," answered Winter. "You
mustn't cut yourself off from your fellow-creatures altogether,
Jacob."
"Why should I be up here then, Adam? What have I done this thing
for? I've called on the hills to cover me, and they will do their
part if I do mine. Good-bye, all; and if there's a God, may He deal
gently with you, my son, and you my friends. Keep edging to the
right till you make the big rock and the old quarry--then the way's
plain."
"And mind you get out of them clothes the first minute you're back,"
shouted Adam.
"Fear not; I'm outside the power of weather to hurt," he cried.
"I've given weather its chance, but the hand of the elements is held
from me."
He was gone and the carts, each with a man at the horse's head,
splashed onward.
Peter walked beside Adam Winter. A rare flash of emotion had touched
the lad, and the events of the day had broken him.
"'Tis a pretty bloody thing to have a father like that and no
mother," he said.
"So it is then; but don't be sorry for yourself; be sorry for him,
and hopeful for him. He's got a good sensible family, and it's up to
you and John Henry to go ahead and make him proud of you. And very
like it will be your work to get him back again in time to come."
"Avis thinks that perhaps, when he knows he's got a grandchild, he'll
get a bit more nature into him."
"Very like he will. Billy always swears he'll weather it, and he's
looked deeper into your father than we can."
At Huntingdon, Auna was exceedingly glad when her father left her
alone for a little while. She had been fighting her tears and would
have conquered had he remained--at any rate until she had gone to bed
and out of his sight; but when he left with the carts, she broke down
and wept. She could not have told why, for she had long grown
accustomed to her future and in some moods even welcomed it; but the
dour day served to impress upon her youth a side of the time to come
that made her weak for the moment. She quailed and abandoned herself
to tears; yet not for long. Love dried her eyes, and hope that her
father would presently win to peace soon made her brave again. She
set about preparing a meal and first brought down a complete change
of underclothes and socks and a pair of slippers for him. These she
put by the fire, but noticed with some concern that the kitchen
chimney smoked and flung puffs from the peat into the room. The wind
increased and the night darkened in storm. She began to pull the
furniture to its places and lifted an enlarged photograph of her
mother on to the parlour mantelpiece. Jacob would like to see that
when he came in. She heard him presently moving a crate in the yard
and saw him dimly through the gloom carrying it to the cart-shed.
Then she called him.
"Do come in and change your things, father," she cried from the
window.
"Right!" he answered. "I'm just going to give the pony a bite of hay
and see he's settling down."
He soon appeared dripping wet and smiling, with his red dog turned to
a russet-brown. The creature was downcast. It shook itself,
scattered moisture, whimpered and crept to the fire. Auna, now
cheerful, took a towel and wiped the dog. Then she left the towel
for her father, who had already stripped off his coat and jacket, and
bade him get into his warm clothes quickly.
He called her back in twenty minutes and she found that he had obeyed
her. He was rummaging in a box of stores for the spirit bottle.
"Four fingers I must drink," he said. "The wet has got into the
bones of my neck seemingly."
He swallowed a stiff glass of brandy, and then Auna lighted a lamp
and prepared their meal.
"We've come up into a proper gale," said Jacob, "and the harder it
blows, the calmer do I find myself, Auna. It'll tire itself out by
morning and well have a fine day for putting the things in place."
After the meal he pottered about and cleared the passage, while she
brought blankets and sheets from boxes, aired them and busied herself
bed-making. She found her father drinking more brandy. He had been
in the parlour and he had returned there presently, set a candle on
the mantelpiece and stood looking at Margery's photograph. She left
him there and turned to settling the crockery on the dresser. Then,
an hour later, she returned, to find him still standing motionless in
the parlour. The wind shouted and some tar-pitched slates on the
roof were chattering as though the house shivered.
Jacob at her call woke from his reverie and came to the fire. He had
grown very silent. She pulled up his big arm-chair, and he sat down
in it and spread his hands to the red peat.
"Like a death-rattle up over," he said. "We must put those slates
right, Margery."
He called her by her mother's name sometimes.
"The house is fine and water-proof," she declared. "There's not a
drop got in anywhere."
When the cuckoo cried nine, she made supper with cold meat and bread
and jam and more tea.
But Jacob did not want to eat.
"We'll turn in," he said. "We've had a hard day. I hope they got
back all right. Do you feel pretty peart?"
"Never better, father. I've hotted a brick for your bed, because
you're a thought shivery by the look of it."
"Nought," he said. "Only weariness."
"Your leg don't hurt you?"
"Only terrible tired. Can I do anything more for you to-night?"
"No--you get to bed and I'll soon go too."
The old red terrier slept with Jacob, and his basket was pulled out
from a pile of odds and ends and taken up to the bedroom. He crept
up after his master--a melancholy dog, strange to his surroundings.
"Poor 'Jacko' will soon settle down," said Auna. "Don't forget to
put him a drop of water in the soap-dish, father."
Jacob kissed Auna and went up the little stone stairs to his chamber.
He was very stiff.
"Look in upon me the last thing," he said, "and bring me up another
drop of drink. Make it hot, there's a dear."
He was suffering from slight rigours when she brought him the liquor
but Auna did not observe them.
CHAPTER X
FEVER
Auna went early next morning to see her father, and found him sick.
"I'm very bad," he said, "with chills and heats all night, and stiff
in knees and ankles and wrists. It's like that burn-gout Billy had,
I fear, only it torments all the joints so sharply that I can't bear
the bedclothes upon me."
His face told of pain. As yet he seemed more surprised than alarmed
that sickness should have fallen so suddenly upon him. He shrank
from her touch and feared even her light hand as she pulled the
tumbled coverlet.
"Fetch me some hot drink," he said, "and then we'll think what's to
be done."
"There's but one thing to do, father, and that's to fetch doctor to
you so quick as ever I can."
"I fear I can't get up, Auna."
"Of course you can't. Don't you talk. Your teeth chatter so. I'll
put food and drink by you and then get on the horse and go down."
She left him for twenty minutes, made some tea and brought it to him
with bread and butter. He could not eat but drank thirstily.
"A beautiful day, father, and the dog's run home. So soon as I let
him out this morning, he was off."
Jacob already began to wander.
"That's a bad sign. The dog may know I'm going to die. I hope he's
right; but I don't feel as if I was going to die."
"No, no, father. It's only a chill along of being wet through
yesterday."
"As to your going down, I don't know. We'd better leave it to
Nature. I may take a turn presently."
"I hope you will; but you mustn't prevent me going down. It's your
duty to try and get well, father, and a doctor would help you."
"Cousins from the Cottage Hospital then--nobody else. But there's no
hurry."
Auna, however, knew that she ought not to lose a moment. The way was
long and, at best, it must be several hours before succour could be
won.
"Tell me just exactly how you feel, because that will help doctor to
know what's overtook you, father."
He explained, but vaguely. She felt that he was in a great fever,
and saw that his pain increased.
Presently, to her dismay, he refused to let her go.
"It's come over me that I'm finished," he said. "I believe and hope
this may be the beginning of death, Auna. And if that's so, there's
no need for you to leave me. I'd little like any other woman to
close my eyes. But you must be patient. I'm going to be called to
suffer a lot I expect."
For an hour she begged and he denied. Then, to her great joy, she
saw a horseman creeping up over the moor in the morning sunshine.
She was sitting beside Jacob with her eyes on the window, when the
tiny figure appeared, afar off.
"Father!" she said, "there's somebody coming up over!"
"Bid them be gone, then," he answered. "I only want you."
She left him a moment and ran down. As yet Auna could not tell that
the rider was on his way to Huntingdon, but she meant to summon him
if possible.
He headed for the Warren House, however, and, while yet he was half a
mile distant, she recognised William Marydrew, on his iron-grey pony,
and knew that he was coming to Jacob. Immense joy fired Auna at this
sight. From an emotion of terrible dread and an inclination to
believe that her father would die, she now leapt to hope. No doubt
Billy would support her and insist on the doctor being fetched, while
he kept the sick man company.
She ran to Jacob with the news.
"Be sure it was ordained for him to come, and it means you are to be
saved, dear father," she declared.
At first he was sulky and wished William away.
"'Tis not like him to poke and pry," he said.
But when the old man appeared, proud of his feat in riding up to see
them, Jacob welcomed him.
"Don't know which is the most wonderful--you, or your pony," said the
sufferer. "Don't touch me, William. I'm in a flame, now cold, now
hot, running through my bones; and my heart's beating like a hammer.
Something gone wrong and my tongue fills my mouth. I'm hopeful it's
the end. But Auna wants the doctor."
"Why, surely. You've catched a fever, Jacob. Put out your tongue.
You can always tell by that member if a body's took fever."
Jacob's tongue was very yellow and Auna cried out at the colour.
Then William took the girl beyond earshot of her father.
"Get on his horse, because it will go a lot quicker than mine, and go
so fast as you safely can to Dr. Cousins. And tell him the symptoms.
I don't know what's wrong, but 'tis something pretty large I'm
fearing. His eyes roam like a frightened cow's."
Auna was thinking.
"We've got no side saddle, but I handled mother's old clothes only
yesterday--her kennel-maid's clothes, which father always kept as a
great treasure. Should you say I might put 'em on, or would it be
wrong, Mr. Marydrew?"
"'Wrong!' Belike they was spared for this end! Get in 'em so fast
as you can, and I'll saddle your hoss. Every five minutes may make a
difference."
She returned to her father's room, where such of Margery's garments
as he cherished were already stowed in a chest of drawers.
"I be going to get in dear mother's breeches, father, and ride down,"
she said; but he was talking to himself and did not hear her. She
took the old, brown raiment and went to her room. When William had
saddled Jacob's horse and brought it to the door, he hitched the
bridle to a hook, set there for the purpose, and ascended again to
his friend.
"She'll have a good ride," he said, "for the sun's shining and the
wind's lost its edge. And I be going to bide with you, my dear, till
she fetches back again."
The sufferer was lying on his back looking at the ceiling and deep in
thought. He did not heed William's words, but began speaking quickly
and coherently for a time.
"I'm glad you've come, because you can listen to what my life has
been, William. And you can understand and tell people when I'm dead.
No doubt you were prompted to come up for that purpose. If I can
hold my mind on it, I'll tell you."
"Don't you fret your wits just now. Keep your strength to fight."
"It's the end, and I'm glad, and I'm glad that you were sent to hear,
and nobody else."
He proceeded to attempt an account of his life, but could not. The
fever had touched his mind and he rambled in a growing delirium from
which no steadfast argument proceeded. William tried in vain to
silence him, but he would talk and he had lost all hold on reality
when Auna came in to see him before starting. She was tempted not to
do so, yet a fear that he might pass away before she returned proved
too great for her and she came.
"I'm off now, dear father. Be there anything more for me to
remember?"
Bullstone started up and his eyes shone at her.
"Margery! There--I knew she couldn't be far off if I was ill. Don't
you fret--it's nothing--just a pinch of poison caught somewhere. Put
your cold hand on my head--that's right. Sit down, but don't touch
my frame."
He tried to put his arm round her and groaned.
"'Tis like a red-hot knife turning in the elbow and wrist," he said.
"Going for a run with the dogs? That's right. Mind the water. Oh,
my God, when I saw her in Winter's arms, I thought I'd drop, William.
Where's my mother? You'd best to call her to me."
"Let her go then," urged Billy. "Don't you keep her now, she's busy."
Auna rose, but Jacob called her back.
"Wait a minute. Where's my wits? We're married now. I don't want
mother. I want you--only you. We're married, William. Damn it, old
boy, you was at the wedding. Why are you in the kennel-maid's togs,
Margery? I don't like that."
"Quite right," declared the old man, winking at Auna. "You get out
of 'em, Mrs. Bullstone, so quick as you can. Let her go, Jacob."
"Not to Adam Winter--not to him."
"I'll come back ever so quick," promised Auna.
But a change had come over her father.
"I see it now. You're dead--you're dead, Margery. You've come
because I'm going to die. She's dead, Billy. It was only a
wishtness--standing there. She's gone!" he continued, as Auna
slipped away. "Did you see her too?"
"I see her very plain and beautiful, Jacob; and don't you worry about
it. All's well. Where there is Margery, there is hope--such a
hopeful one as her. Just you bide so hopeful as you can and trust
yourself to God."
"Didn't she have a message? Where did she come from? Oh, Christ,
William, I'm in everlasting torture. Would God put a man in hell
before he's dead?"
"Quiet then! Force yourself to lie still and listen to me. I'll do
the talking."
"Give me something to drink."
He drank and then he began calling out for Margery.
"Why isn't she here? Where's her place but here? Curse the dogs.
Aren't my sufferings more than all the dogs? There's a bit of flint
in every woman's heart, and we married men are sure to bruise
ourselves upon it soon or late. But I'd never have thought---- To
put the blasted dogs before me!"
"She's working for you. She's gone for the doctor, because you're
ill."
"The doctor liked her--Briggs, he liked her; but he hated me. I
won't have him. He'd kill me."
"She's gone for Cousins--he's all right. He mended your leg, you
mind."
Jacob sank into silence presently and the cuckoo clock below struck
ten.
"Who's that calling, 'Margery,' 'Margery'? Who is it, William? Not
Winter--not Adam Winter now I'm here powerless? I'll strangle
him--God judge me--I'll strangle him with these hands so soon as my
nature comes back to me!"
"He's all right. 'Tis only the cuckoo clock."
"I've often been tempted to crush it under my feet, William, when it
jeered at me in the night season. I've laid awake and heard its
cursed note--foul--foul--lecherous--and I've been hard put to it to
remain in bed. But it was hers, and I respect all that is hers,
though she doesn't respect all that is mine."
"The cuckoo bird means spring. Spring will soon be here, and I shall
often ride up over to have a tell, Jacob."
"You're a very wise man; but it is easy to be wise when life goes
straight!"
Jacob's mind had returned into the past. He said things that he had
often thought.
"A great test of love, if a woman can put her husband's trade higher
than her own pleasure and look at it with his eyes. Few do--few do.
Margery felt her own life was more interesting than mine, and who
shall blame her? We must be ourselves, William, and that's why
marriage is a false contrivance. When the childer are come and the
love has gone, it's only self-respect that keeps most pairs grinding
on together. For character's deeper than love and we must be
ourselves. I thought she liked dogs best in the world after me; but,
in your ear alone, William, dogs are nothing to her now. She wants
to be herself, and she thinks I won't let her; but if I am jealous of
her, God is more jealous still. He takes her side against me,
William. She's far more to Him than I am, because she believes in
Him and I do not. Life can't be a happy thing for her any more--not
while I'm alive. Yet for my honour I can't let her go free while I
live. You see that, don't you?"
"Leave it, Jacob, and shut your mouth and try to get a bit of sleep.
You must keep all your strength to fight the fever, I tell you."
"The old dog has run back to Red House. He wouldn't have gone if
he'd thought I was going to live. He knows he'll be masterless
presently, and so he's going to try and make new friends before it's
too late. But all in vain. When I'm taken, they'll put him away. I
stand between him and death. Fear will be on him when he hears Peter
and George speak of me in the past--the fear of those that cumber the
earth and know it."
"Could you let down a little more drink?"
The old man descended and brought some tea that Auna had left by the
fire.
"We must see to some milk," he said. "You'll be called to sup a lot
of milk I shouldn't wonder. Now I be going to light a fire in your
chamber, because you'll have to keep warm for a long time."
Jacob talked for another hour, then became silent. A peat fire
smouldered in his room and he fell asleep while William waited and
watched.
Auna came back at last and the ancient went down to her.
"Dr. Cousins is on his way," she said, "and he is pretty sure from
what I told him that father's got rheumatic fever; and since it has
come on so fierce and sudden, he's a good bit afraid. We must put
him in blankets and wrap his joints in cotton-wool. He'll bring
physic, and he's going to send up a trained nurse to-morrow. I've
fetched the cotton-wool and Peter will ride up so soon as he can with
milk and eggs from Red House. Our cow was coming next week, but
they'll drive it up sooner now."
"All to the good," declared William, "and you get in your petticoats.
Best he don't see you in your mother's clothes again, because it
works into his fever."
She obeyed; but when presently Jacob awoke and they got him into his
blankets with great cost of pain, he still persisted in his illusion
and regarded Auna as her mother. He was dwelling entirely in a time
before his children had been born. They wrapped his joints in the
warm cotton-wool and he grew calmer; but he would not let Auna out of
his sight and spoke to her as a dying man to his wife.
"Everything is yours," he said. "Have no fear for the future; but my
mother must be your first call. While she lives, Margery, put her
first."
"So I will then," said the girl; "don't you fear. I'll take all care
of her."
"A good mother and far-seeing. I wish I'd been a better son,
Margery. Break it to her gently that I'm going. It's bound to be a
shock. But she's had worse."
When the doctor came he spent an hour with Bullstone and gave him
medicine that relieved him.
"It's going to be a short fight," he said to Auna presently. "We
shall know in a very few days if he will live or die. An attack may
last weeks, but in your father's case the turning point will be
pretty soon. His lungs are all right and, so far, his heart. In
young people the heart often fails under the sudden strain; but at
your father's age, this may not happen. You must be hopeful, but not
very hopeful, Auna. You'll do just as I say to-night, and Nurse
Woolcombe will be up early to-morrow. Keep his mind at rest all you
know. He may be quick to respond to the remedies. I think he will
be; and, if he is, his pain will pretty soon be less. But he is
older than his age and trouble has reduced his vitality. Don't cross
him in anything; but make him take his medicine and the liquid food."
"D'you think he'll be spared, Dr. Cousins?" she asked.
"I won't answer that to-night. To-morrow, perhaps, I shall be better
able to. Keep up your pluck. You used to do him more good than
anybody when he broke his leg; and so you will again. He won't know
people for a bit, I expect; and he may say all sorts of wild things
while he's off his head; but you mustn't mind."
"He thinks I'm mother."
"Let him. Humour him and watch him like a hawk to-night. To-morrow,
when nurse comes, you must turn in and have a long sleep. Mr.
Marydrew's going to stop till to-morrow. Don't let him smoke in your
father's room though. Now I must be off, or I shall lose myself."
He rode away just as Peter arrived on a pony with full baskets. The
lad did not see his father, but learned all there was to know.
"He's going to die I should think," he said.
"Not if Auna and me can keep him alive," promised William, "and be it
as 'twill, a few days must pass before doctor can settle. The fever
took him like a tiger and he'll fall, or conquer, afore Sunday."
"Let John Henry and Avis know first thing to-morrow," begged Auna,
and her brother promised to do so.
"Will you look at him? He's asleep for the minute."
But Peter declined.
"Can't help him for me to look at him," he said. "I'll get going.
We'll send up some more milk and sago to-morrow and hurry 'em about
the cow. Be the stove all right?"
"It is," she answered. "It works very well, now the wind's changed,
and the fire-grate in his room draws very suent too."
An hour later Jacob woke in delirium. He shouted loudly and they
hastened to him.
Fever had peopled the little chamber with monsters based on the real.
"Drive 'em out--where they belong! Drive 'em out--that flock of
little women, with black wings and white faces and eyes as hard as
stone! They're women--not birds, though they do fly and make the
wind whistle, like a flock of starlings. A starling isn't much of a
gentleman, but he'll get into heaven before they do--before the
little women, because they're all on the pattern of Judith Huxam, the
damned. You didn't know she was damned--did you? But I know it and
hell knows it."
"Hush, Jacob--don't you talk foolishness," begged Billy; but the sick
man knew him not. He turned to Auna.
"Can't you help me? Can't you do anything? If I move a finger it's
like dipping it in molten fire. I'm burning alive, and my own wife
won't put the flame out. God do so to you, Margery!"
William sighed.
"Us be going to have a parlous night with the poor man," he said.
"When do he take his physic again?"
"Half after seven, Mr. Marydrew."
"Well, see if he'll lap a drop of milk. Thank God your dear father
won't be violent except in words, Auna, because it hurts him a darned
sight too much to move. We've got him there."
Jacob shouted and they saw that he was drowned in sweat. They
ministered to him and presently he grew calmer again. After he had
drunk the medicine, William stopped with him and Auna went down to
prepare a meal. In another hour Jacob had become unconscious again
and the girl and old man ate hastily together below.
"Us must face a stormy night, my dear," said William; "but 'twill
pass, however long. Fetch up a good lot of peat, and keep the hot
milk and the sago pudden down here; and trust me, if your eyes close,
to be on the watch."
"They won't close," promised Auna.
"I've stopped the cuckoo clock," explained William, "because the
noise vexed him. We'll be still as death to-night, for silence is
physic in itself."
He ate and drank and she bade him take a stiff glass of spirits and
water.
"You've done wonders, and I'll never forget it, and no more will
father when he's well again," declared Auna. "You smoke your pipe
now and have a rest down here, and I'll fetch up the easy, wicker
chair, so you'll sit up there comfortable. But you mustn't smoke in
his room, Mr. Marydrew."
She went out presently, to feed the ponies, while William lit his
pipe, with an ear cocked lest the sufferer should wake.
"Dark and still, and a fox barking far ways off," said Auna when she
returned.
Jacob did not wake till nearly midnight and then they wrestled with
him for an hour, but made him take his food and physic. He was in
agony, yet his mind seemed a little clearer and he restrained
himself. Then fever dreams swept over him. Under the light of the
shaded lamp, hidden in a corner, he could see his daughter, and still
he believed her Margery; but Margery come from beyond the grave. He
thought his wife's spirit was beside him and the belief acted as an
anodyne.
"Say you've come for me! Say you've come for me! Say you are going
to forgive me and fetch me home!" he cried. And then Auna saw that
he wept; so she bent over him and wiped away his tears. Her own
fell, too, and when he had lapsed again into insensibility, she crept
away and sobbed silently in a corner. This happened in the dead of
the night and William, despite his resolutions, was sound asleep
beside the fire at the time. She was glad that he slept and had not
seen her cry.
She pulled herself together and took heart, mended the fire and sat
alert between the two unconscious men while the long night drained
away.
Jacob did not waken until four o'clock, with a shout that brought
William to his feet.
"Dang my old wig, if I haven't had forty winks," he said, "why for
did you let me drop off, Auna?"
CHAPTER XI
JACOB LIVES
A trained nurse arrived before noon on the following day and Dr.
Cousins drove her up. The physician found that Jacob was responding
to his remedies and no special symptoms of any gravity had appeared.
The disease promised to run its course, but whether it would destroy
the patient remained to be seen. He was dangerously ill and still
delirious. Jacob could not state his case, but the doctor inclined
to hope that he suffered less of acute pain. He assured Auna that
she had every reason to be hopeful and the nurse, at a later hour in
the day, declared the same. She was chiefly concerned with the sick
man's reserves of strength and, seeing his powerful frame, felt
sanguine.
William went home on his pony after the doctor's visit, and an hour
later John Henry and Peter came up together, bringing fresh milk and
other comforts. They did not see their father, but they stopped with
Auna for an hour or two and spoke of the Huxams.
Great decisions had been made and their grandparents were returning
to the post-office, while Jeremy and Jane would occupy the new house
for the present, until the time came to let it furnished for the
summer.
John Henry now saw through his uncle and spoke scornfully of him.
"A worthless waster--that's all he is--and no good for anything. All
talk and smiles and fine manners; and under 'em nothing. He ain't
got any brains and he ain't got any guts; and everybody in the land
knows it but grandmother."
"Does she like going back?" asked Auna.
"Yes--else she wouldn't go. I believe she's been at a loose end ever
since she left the shop. She hates doing nothing and being waited
on. It's contrary to her nature, and she's been very queer lately
and frightened grandfather off and on. She'll be jolly glad to get
back into the midst of things, and so will he. There's a lot of work
in 'em both yet and it's good for their money and for the rest of the
family that they're going back. There wouldn't have been any
business left if Uncle Jeremy had messed about there much longer."
"To think we thought him such a wonder when we were little!" said
Peter.
"When you get up to be a man yourself, you soon see what most men are
worth," answered John Henry. "He'll never do anything and, if his
children are like him, they'll all go in the workhouse soon or late;
and if they're workers, then he'll live on them come he grows old."
Auna asked after her sister and heard that she was well. Then the
brothers departed and Peter promised to return ere long.
"In about three days Nurse Woolcombe says we shall know for certain
if father's going to live," Auna told them; "but I know now. I'm
positive sure he's going to live."
"'Tis doubtful if it would be a good thing," declared John Henry. "I
speak for himself, of course. I'm sure nobody wants him to die."
"It will be the turning point for father perhaps," thought Peter.
"He might quiet down after a shaking like this."
Jacob Bullstone suffered for many days and it was a fortnight before
Auna could find herself sleeping natural sleep and waking without
dread. The sick man mended and fell back again. His strength wore
down and a first relapse found him in the gravest danger, for his
heart was weary. But he pulled up again with devoted nursing and
skilled attention. To Auna, Nurse Woolcombe became as a goddess, and
she sealed a friendship with the widow that lasted for life. They
worked together and the younger was skilful and understanding.
The head symptoms continued distressing and Bullstone lapsed into
delirium on several occasions after periods of sanity. His
temperature puzzled the nurse and she strove to distract the
patient's mind from himself. But, for a time, he continued impatient
and declared that no friendly hand would have desired to prolong his
life. Then he grew more reasonable, and when the crisis was past and
his sons were permitted to see him, while secretly amazed at the
sight of the pallid and shrunken ghost they called their father, both
found him peaceful and in a frame of mind they hardly remembered.
His face was white and a growth of beard also helped to disguise the
countenance they knew; but his great, dark eyes no longer roamed
restlessly over them. They were dimmed by much pain, yet they were
gentle and steady. He spoke little and his voice had weakened to a
whisper; but he listened and nodded affirmation. His chief concern
was with Avis.
"Is her child born?" he asked thrice, at intervals.
"The child's due," said John Henry, "and she's very well, so Bob
tells me."
He looked up at the great lads solemnly.
"John Henry and Peter," he said--"my two sons come up to see me.
That's good."
"And lots to show you when you're about again, father. You'll be
surprised at 'Red House Rover's' new puppies."
"The old dog ran home. He thought I was going to die; but he didn't
bargain for doctor and Auna. They've saved me I suppose."
"The Lord of Hosts have saved you, father," declared John Henry, who
had great faith in his God.
"Believe it if you can," said Jacob.
They spoke of the Huxams, but found him not interested.
"Is the child of Avis born?" he asked again.
They left him and told Auna that they were well pleased and that he
had been kind to them.
"He won't die now; but I expect he'll be a bed-lier for evermore.
You've got to face that, Auna," said John Henry.
"So long as he lives till he's at peace, nothing else matters," she
answered. "But he'll be better than a bed-lier. Nurse says he'll
walk in a month and get back his nature mighty quick, when he can eat
strong food again."
Jacob mended slowly and the weather held against him, for the spring
was harsh and chill. The light increased with the cold and early
March found snow on the moors and a harsh spell of wind from the
north-east. The doctor begged Jacob to return to Red House, that his
cure might be hastened; but this he declined to do. He was calm and
patient now, though very weak. He liked to be alone and he expressed
a great desire to see William Marydrew.
Then came good news and Auna had the joy of telling him.
"Avis has got a girl baby, father; and 'tis a beautiful, perfect
little child with Bob's eyes. And Avis is doing well and the baby's
going to be called 'Margery.' And Margery Elvin's a pretty name
Nurse Woolcombe says; and so it is."
The news did Bullstone good service and occupied his mind.
"The name of 'Margery' will be upon my tongue again," he said, "and I
must school myself to speak it and hear it, Auna. I shall be very
glad to see the little creature. You're worthy to be your mother's
daughter, and that's the highest praise you'll ever get from human
lips. And may the child of Avis be worthy to be her granddaughter."
Auna felt very happy.
"It never rains but it pours, father," she said. "I've had a letter
to-day--a letter from Great-Uncle Lawrence Pulleyblank. His
writing's gone very spindley and up and down, because he's so old;
but when you're equal to it he wants you to travel to Plymouth for
the sea air; and if you won't go, then he wants for me to go, when
you can spare me for a week or two."
"Wishful for me to go?"
She began to speak, but stopped, since her words would have to deal
with the incidents of her mother's death.
"I dearly hope you'll do it when you can."
"No, no; but thank the man. You shall go to him. I won't be so
selfish about you as I have been. I've kept your light under a
bushel too long, because you were all I had left. Others must share
you, I reckon. You're pale as a davered rose through so much
nursing. You shall go presently and make a good holiday with the old
chap."
He asked constantly for William, and hoped that each fine day might
bring him.
"I've got a wonderful thing to tell him, that only such a man would
understand," he explained to Nurse Woolcombe.
They concealed the fact that Mr. Marydrew had been ill with
bronchitis.
Then Auna went to see him and was able to tell her father that Billy
had returned to health, after a chill.
"He's all right and is coming up the first soft day in May," she
promised.
Jacob himself began to regain strength, and there fell a morning when
Auna went to Brent to bid a barber climb to Huntingdon and shave him.
"He's a proper ghost, and you mustn't be frightened, Mr. Prynn," she
said; "but he's going on all right, and now he's wishful to have his
beard away."
Yet, before the barber came, Jacob changed his mind again.
"I'll wear it for a sign," he said. "I'll let it be."
At last William arrived and Jacob greeted him with affection. The
old man and Auna sat one on each side of his chair and Auna held her
father's hand.
"I'm going downstairs again next week," explained Jacob. He was
sitting by the fire.
William expressed great pleasure at his appearance,
"A far different creature from what I left," he said. "Then you was
a burning, fiery furnace, my dear. But now you be glad for a bit of
fire outside yourself. Can you catch heat from it?"
"And you--you've been bad, too, I'm vexed to learn."
"Only the tubes," explained William. "My tubes was filled up, so as
I had to fight for air a bit; but us old oaks takes a lot of
throwing. I'm good for another summer anyway. Spring's afoot down
the vale."
"I've had great thoughts in the shadow of death, William. I've come
through, as you see, and shall live a bit longer. At death's door I
knocked and they wouldn't let me enter in. You can't get so close,
though, without learning many things. Yet I wouldn't be without what
I know. It points to peace--a withered sort of peace, where no hope
is."
"You can't live without hope, my dear man. It's so needful as the
air you breathe."
"Yes, you can live without it; you can do your duty without it. I
heard a laugh yesterday night--'twas myself. Nature made me laugh,
because to be without hope is almost beyond reason, and anything
outside reason makes us laugh."
William regarded him doubtfully.
"I thought to find you'd thrown over all these silly fancies," he
said. "You must keep a hand on yourself, Jacob, now you've come
through and are going to live. It's bad to laugh when there's
nothing to laugh at. You mustn't do that. Emma Andrews laughed for
three days; and she went down to the river and drowned herself on the
fourth."
"I'm all right. Between ourselves, Billy, I had bats in the belfry
for a time after my wife died. I know it now and I'm surprised that
none marked it. After the trial came a great flash of light to my
mind. From within it came and made all the past look dark--burned it
to dust and cinders. Only the future mattered, and it wasn't the
judge and jury showed me I had been wrong--it wasn't them at all. It
was the flash of light. Then hope got hold on me like a giant and I
hoped too much. That was my punishment--to hope too much and not see
hope had died. But my sickness has drained the poison out of me, and
though my frame is weak, my brain is clear. I see and I can put
things together. I've come to a great thought--a shattering thing
but true."
"A comforting thing then."
"No--truth is seldom comforting. But it puts firm ground under you
and shows you where to stand and how to protect yourself against
hope. I'm a well-educated man, William, and though I've fallen far
below all that I was taught as a boy, I've risen again now. But
life's too short for most of us to learn how to live it. Too short
to get away from our feelings, or look at it all from outside. But I
can now. I've reached to that. I can look at myself, and skin
myself, and feel no more than if I was peeling a potato."
William began to be uneasy.
"Leave yourself alone. Have you seen your granddaughter yet?"
"No; but my heart goes out to her. Don't look fearful: I'm all
right. I haven't done with my children, or their children. I'm
human still. I can take stock of myself, thanks to my forgotten
wisdom--lost when Margery died, and found again. A bit ago I was
growing awful cold. I felt not unkindly to the world, you must know,
but cold was creeping into me, body and soul. I didn't love as I
used, nor hate as I used, nor care as I used. I didn't want to see
what I couldn't see, nor do what I couldn't do. All was fading out
in a cold mist. Then I had my great illness, and there was no more
mist, and I began to link up again with the world. Nothing could
have done it but that. And then I got the bird's-eye view denied to
most of us, but reached by me through great trials.
"For look at it, Billy. First there was my faulty nature and little
experience. No experience of life--an only son, kept close by loving
parents--and with the awful proneness to be jealous hid in me, like
poison in a root. Then fate, or chance, to play trick after trick
upon me after marriage and build up, little by little, the signs of
my great, fancied wrong. Signs that another man would have laughed
at, but proofs--deadly proofs of ruin to my jaundiced sight. And the
cunning, the craft to heap these things on my head--all shadows to a
sane man; but real as death to me! First one, then another--each a
grain of sand in itself, but growing, growing, till the heap was too
heavy for me to bear.
"And whose work was it? 'God' you say, since He's responsible for
all and willed it so. God, to plan a faulty man and start him to his
own destruction; God, to make me love a woman with a mother like
Margery's, so that, when the wounds might be healed, there was that
fiend ever ready and willing and watchful to keep 'em open. God, to
will that I should never hear my wife forgive me, though she had
forgiven me; God, to let her die before I could get to her and kneel
at her feet!
"No, William, a tale like this leaves a man honest, or else mad. And
I'll be honest and say that no loving, merciful, all-powerful Father
ever treated his children so. Mark how calm I am--no fury, no
lamentation, no rage now. Just clear sight to see and show the way
of my downfall. Your God could have given me a pinch of fine
character to save me. He could have made me more generous, more
understanding of my pure wife, less suspicious, less secret, less
proud, less mean. He could have built me not to head myself off from
everything and bring back night and ruin on my head. But no.
"We'll allow I got all I deserved--we'll confess that as I was made
cracked, I had to break. But what about Margery? Did she get what
she deserved? Did she earn what she was called to suffer--a
creature, sweet as an open bud, to be drawn through dirt and horror
and things evil and foul to early death? Was that the work of the
all powerful and all just?"
"Always remember there's the next world, Jacob."
"Can fifty next worlds undo the work of this one? Can eternity alter
what I did and what she suffered here? The next world's no way out,
William. The balance isn't struck there, because evil never can turn
into good, either in earth, or heaven. You can wipe away tears, but
you can't wipe away what caused them to flow. And where have I come
to now, think you? Another great light I've seen, like the light
that blazed to Paul; but it blazed a different story to me. When I
see a man praising God, I'm reminded of a mouse that runs to hide in
the fur of the cat that's killing it. I no longer believe in God,
William, and I'll tell you why. Because I think too well of God to
believe in Him. D'you understand that? I wish He existed; I wish we
could see His handicraft and feel His love; but let us be brave and
not pretend. The sight of my little life and the greater sight of
the whole world as it is--these things would drive God's self into
hell if He was just. He'd tumble out of His heaven and call on the
smoke of the pit to hide Him and His horrible works. And so I've
come to the blessed, grey calm of knowing that what I suffered there
was none to save me from. It's a sign of the greatness of man that
he could give all his hard-won credit to God, William, and invent a
place where justice would be done by a Being far nobler, finer, truer
and stronger than himself. But proofs against are too many and too
fearful. The world's waiting now for another Christ to wake us to
the glory of Man, William, because the time has come when we're old
enough to trust ourselves, and walk alone, and put away childish
things. We deserve a good God--or none."
The ancient listened patiently.
"Your mind is working like a river--I see that," he answered. "But
be patient still, Jacob. Keep yourself in hand. You'll find
yourself yet; you be on the right road I expect; and when you do find
yourself, you'll find your God was only hid, not dead."
He uttered kindly thoughts and they talked for an hour together.
Then Auna and William descended to the kitchen and he ate with her.
He was happy at what he had seen rather than at what he had heard.
"Forget all your father says," begged William. "He's going to be a
strong and healthy man. I mark the promise in him. A great victory
for doctor and you and nurse. There's a bit of fever in his mind
yet; but the mind be always the last to clean up again after a great
illness. His talk be only the end of his torments running away--like
dirty water after a freshet."
"Do you think, if we could get him down to see Margery Elvin
christened, it would be a useful thing, Mr. Marydrew?" asked Auna,
and William approved the idea.
"By rights he ought to go to Church and thank God for sparing him,"
he said. "But, be that as it will, if he saw his grandchild made a
faithful follower and heard a hymn sung out and the organs rolling,
it might all help to do the good work."
"I'll try to bring it about, though it may be a very difficult thing
to manage," she said.
"You make a valiant effort," urged William, "and tell your sister to
hold over the event till her father's man enough to come down and
lend a hand."
He returned to Jacob before he left Huntingdon.
CHAPTER XII
THE CHRISTENING
On a day six weeks later, Jacob went down among men and, at the
desire of his children, attended the baptism of his grandchild. The
families assembled and the time was afternoon on Sunday. All
interested, save Judith Huxam, were present, and after the ceremony
ended, a little company trailed up the hill to Owley, that they might
drink tea together and cut the christening cake. Avis and Auna
walked side by side and Auna carried the baby; while behind them came
Peter, Robert Elvin and his mother. John Henry had joined his Aunt
Jane Huxam and her little boys; Jeremy and Adam Winter followed them
and Jacob Bullstone, with Barlow Huxam, walked fifty yards in the
rear. They talked earnestly together and Barlow had the more to say.
He was full of great anxieties, yet did not fail to express regret at
his son-in-law's illness and satisfaction that he had been restored
to health.
"A triumph for your constitution and the doctor's skill. I've
thought upon you and not left you out of my prayers," he said.
"Yes; I've come through; and it was worth while. Time will show,"
answered Jacob.
"A thoughtful moment, when first you see yourself as grandfather,"
commented Barlow, "and still more so when you've only got to wait
till a little one can talk to hear yourself called
'great-grandfather.' That's how it is with me now."
"How d'you find yourself taking up the reins at the post-office once
again?"
"The power is still there, thank God," answered Mr. Huxam. "But time
don't stand still. Life goes pretty light with me, but in confidence
I may tell you it doesn't go so light with my wife. You don't
understand her and I don't expect you to do it, Jacob; and she don't
understand you; but you've been through heavy waters; you've brought
forth deep things out of darkness, in Bible words, and I may tell you
that all's not right with my wife. She was a bit cheerfuller at
first, when we went back into harness and let Jeremy and his family
go to the residence, but it was a flash in the pan. Judy's brooding
again and speaking in riddles, and I'm much put about for the
future--the future here below I mean--not in the world to come."
Bullstone spoke quietly of his own thoughts on the subject of his
mother-in-law.
"I've hated your wife with a deadlier hate than I thought was in my
nature," he said. "But not now. Before I had my great illness, I
always hoped to see her face to face once more and have speech with
her; because I was much feared of a thing happening, Barlow. I'd
meant to see her alone and warn her, by all that she held sacred, to
play fair if she got to Margery before I did. Such was my blinded
sight, then, that I thought it might lie in her power, if she went on
before, to poison my wife's mind in heaven, as she did on earth, so
that if I came I'd still get no forgiveness. But that was all mist
and dream and foolishness, of course. If there was a heaven, there
would be no bearing false witness in it. But there's no heaven and
no meetings and no Margery. It's all one now. Things must be as
they are, and things had to be as they were, because I'm what I am,
and Judith Huxam is what she is."
"A very wrongful view," replied Huxam. "But, for the minute, your
feelings are beside the question, Jacob, and I'm not faced in my home
with any fog like that, but hard facts. And very painful and
tragical they may prove for me and all my family. You'll understand
that she never could forgive the fearful day we journeyed to
Plymouth--you and me; and she held that I'd gone a long way to put my
soul in peril by taking you there to see your dying wife. That's as
it may be, and I've never been sorry for what I did myself, and I
don't feel that it put a barrier between me and my Maker. But now
the case is altered and I'm faced with a much more serious matter.
Judy don't worry about me no more and she don't worry about any of
us, but, strange to relate, she worries about herself!"
"I've heard a whisper of it."
"You might say it was the Christian humility proper to a saint of
God; but this mighty gloom in her brain gets worse. Once, between
ourselves, it rose to terror, at half after three of a morning in
last March. She jumped up from her bed and cried out that Satan was
waiting for her in the street. That's bad, and I spoke to Dr. Briggs
behind her back next day."
"Her religion was always full of horrors, and the birds are coming
back to roost."
"That's a very wrong view and I won't grant it," answered Barlow.
"Who can look into the heart of another? Who can know the driving
power behind us?"
"It's not her heart: it's her poor head. Briggs is watching over her
and he don't like it any more than I do. There's a well-known
condition of the human mind called 'religious melancholy,' Jacob; and
it's a very dangerous thing. And it's got to be stopped, or else a
worse state may over-get her."
"She looks back and mourns maybe? Perhaps it's only her frozen
humanity thawing with the years."
"She don't look back. Never was a woman less prone to look back.
She looks forward and, owing to this delusion of the mind, she don't
like what she sees and it makes her terrible glum. Her eyes are full
of thunder, and her voice is seldom heard now."
"We reap what we sow."
"Not always. She's walked hand in hand with her God ever since she
came to years of understanding, and it's a hard saying that such a
woman deserved to lose her hope and suffer from a disordered mind."
"It's not a disordered mind that loses hope, Barlow--only a clear
one. Hope's not everything."
"Hope is everything; and if the mind weakens, then the life of the
soul stops and there's nothing left but an idiot body to watch until
its end. I've got to face the chance of Judy's immortal part dying,
though her clay may go on walking the earth for another twenty years;
so you'll understand I'm in pretty deep trouble."
"It may not happen."
"It may not. But I'm warned."
Jacob expressed no great regret, for the things that now entered his
mind he could not, or would not, utter.
Mr. Huxam pursued his own grey thought.
"Sometimes it happens that these people who are overthrown by
religion, by the dark will of their Creator, have got to be put away
from their friends altogether; because too much religion, like too
much learning, topples over the brain."
"Perhaps it's only conscience pricking her."
"In a lesser one it might be that; but to hear such a woman as her
wondering in the small hours whether, after all, she is redeemed,
that's not conscience--it's a breakdown of the machinery. 'Could I
lose my own soul by saving Margery's?' she asked me once, and such a
question of course means a screw loose."
Bullstone did not answer and Barlow presently feared that he might
have said too much. He sighed deeply.
"Keep this from every human ear," he begged. "I may be wrong. There
may be a high religious meaning in all this that will come to light.
We must trust where only we can trust."
"You'll find where that is, if you live long enough and suffer long
enough," was all the other answered.
A cheerful spirit marked the little celebration at Owley and, for the
first time, Jacob held his granddaughter in his arms. He had brought
a gift--a trinket of silver with a moonstone set in it--that he had
purchased before their marriage for Margery.
Auna and her father walked home together afterwards up the long slope
from Owley to the moor. He was calm and gracious and they spoke of
the girl's coming visit to her great-uncle.
"I wish you'd change your mind even now and come along with me," she
said. "You'd do Uncle Lawrence good very like."
"No, I shouldn't do him good, and a town's too great a thought for me
yet a while. Not but what I want to do a bit of good, to return a
little of all that's been done for me. But opportunity doesn't lack.
I'll get in touch with my fellow-creatures slow and gradual, one by
one. They frighten me too much all together. They always did; but
I'll come back to them, like a ghost, presently."
"You're not a ghost any more. Look how fine you stood among the
people to-day, and how pleased they were to see you," said Auna.
"Jeremy's going to drive up and fetch you Monday week. He's a
gentleman at large for the minute. Idleness always finds that man at
his best."
"But he'll be a chemist next, and he's reading about it already. He
says that the goal's in sight, and he feels that, as a dispensing
chemist, he will come out like the sun from behind a cloud."
"A very ornamental man, but would have done better as a tree, Auna.
There's many a human would have given more pleasure and less trouble
as a tree in a wood."
Auna laughed.
"He'd have been a very good-looking tree--one of the silver birches
perhaps."
"Margery Elvin is now of the Household of Faith," said Jacob suddenly.
"And weren't she good when parson took her, father?"
"I shouldn't wonder, if all goes well, whether I don't go down and
see her again when you're away."
"I do hope you will then, and write me a letter to say how you are."
"I shall be full of thinking about you. I have thoughts about you.
I am going to make you happy."
"Be happy yourself and I shall be."
"No, that can't happen; but I'll make you happy another way than
that. I can look ahead as I never did before. It will come in good
time. Patience is greater than happiness. I'll go back into the
world some day. But my soul must be quiet--quite quiet for a little
longer yet, Auna, please."
Jeremy came at the appointed time to drive his niece into Brent. She
was going to spend one night with her Aunt Jane at the villa and
proceed next morning to Plymouth. To the last moment she was busy
with arrangements for Jacob's comfort. They had a milch cow at
Huntingdon, and Bullstone milked it himself. A red dog had also
settled down with him.
Jeremy was anxious about his mother, but turned to another subject as
he and his niece journeyed down the hills together. Auna had waved
her last farewell to her father and he had waved back. Then Jeremy
touched a personal matter.
"I want for you to sound Uncle Lawrence about his money," he said.
"You're a clever and understanding girl and can be trusted. It's
time his family knew his intentions, Auna, and you might be doing a
useful thing if you were able to get a word out of him."
"If he says anything I'll remember it," she promised.
"I hope he'll live for a long time yet; and when he's got to go, I
hope you'll have the money, if you want it."
"I'm thinking not of myself, but my children, Auna, and your Aunt
Jane."
"I'll send the boys post-card pictures from Plymouth," she promised,
"and I'm hopeful to send some fine fishes to father if I can."
CHAPTER XIII
THE PROMISE
Three men were talking at Shipley Bridge, and one prepared to leave
the others and ascend to the Moor. But he was in no great hurry.
Adam Winter and old William listened to George Middleweek, who had
come from Red House. His talk concerned the Bullstones and he spoke
of Peter.
"He's wise for his years, but I laugh to see the real boy moving and
feeling behind the parrot cry of what he's been taught to say and
feel. A young woman has turned him down at Brent. She loves
somebody else and haven't got no use for Peter; and he damns his luck
one minute, and the next says that everything that happens must
happen. But it's taking him all his time to believe it as well as
say it, and, meanwhile, nature will out and a dog or two have had to
yelp for Master Peter's troubles. The sorrows of the dog-breeder be
often visited on the dog I reckon."
"Life runs over a lot of innocent dogs, no doubt," said William, "and
leaves 'em mangled and wondering what they've done to be
disembowelled, just as they thought they was being so good and
faithful."
"To a man of Peter Bullstone's mind, the thought that a girl could
refuse him is very vexatious I expect," admitted Adam. "His mother's
family ain't out of the wood yet. My Aunt Amelia tells me that
Judith Huxam was catched by Barlow going to the police-station to
give herself up for fancied crimes! It looks like they'll have to
put her away."
"That's what God brings His Chosen Few to, Adam!"
"No, George. You mustn't say things like that in my hearing, please.
All that happens is part of the pattern, and who can judge of the
pattern from the little piece under his own eye? Not the wittiest
man among us."
"Cant!" answered George. "But if that woman's drove mad--her, who
have driven so many others the same way--then that's one to the good
for your precious Maker, Adam: a bit of plain justice that us common
men can understand."
They spoke of Jacob Bullstone.
"He'll be excited to-day I shouldn't wonder," said George, "because
his daughter is going back to him this evening. Peter drives in for
her presently."
"Auna wrote me a letter full of woe," William told them. "She's one
of they young hearts from which even us frozen old blids can catch
heat. What d'you think? Her Great-Uncle Pulleyblank's minded to
make her his heir, and she's prayed him to leave his money to her
Uncle Jeremy, because he wants it and she don't! But Pulleyblank
knows his Jeremy too well I hope."
"And Jacob seems as if he was more in tune too," declared William.
"He's doing kind things to lonely people--such as don't run up
against much kindness as a rule," explained Adam. "The lonely have a
way to smell out the other lonely ones. He sits very quiet now for
hours at a time, perched on a moor-stone so still as a heron."
The master of Shipley got upon his horse, which stood tethered under
an oak beside the hedge. Then he rode off to climb the waste lands,
while the others went on their way.
Winter had come to dinner with Jacob, and he found him cheerful and
exalted before the thought of his child's return.
He explained his hopes and purposes, but with diffidence.
"If men, such as you and Marydrew, still think well of it, I don't
say but what I might slip back again to some quiet spot," he said.
"I shouldn't feel that I'd got any right, exactly, to thrust in again
among folk--such a thing as I've grown to be; but if it was only for
William's sake, I'd come. He always held out that I'd be saved for
some usefulness, and I'd like to make good his words."
"Come then," urged Winter, "don't go back on it."
"I'm a thought clearer sighted than I have been, Adam, and more
patient. How's Samuel? I understand him now so well as you do
yourself."
They talked of common interests, but Bullstone grew restless as the
sun went westerly, and he did not seek to stay his guest when the
farmer rose to return.
"I've got everything in fine fettle for her--for Auna," he explained.
"She's coming back from her sea-faring to-day. Peter goes in for her
and she'll walk along alone from Shipley, and the boy will be up with
her box to-morrow morning. The moor's in a cheerful mind to-night,
but I dread to hear her say she likes the sea better."
"No fear of that while you kennel up here. But I hope we shall have
you both down before autumn."
"Yes, faith, I shall creep down."
They left Huntingdon together, Jacob walking by Winter's horse for
two miles. They parted, then, in the gracious glow of evening, and
the elder sat upon a shelf of rock and waited. Far beneath him the
sun fires lingered over the pavilions of a larch grove and warmed the
young green to gold. The untiring cuckoo called a while, then grew
silent as twilight stole delicately over all things and detail died.
He saw Auna at last--slim and swift, ascending on quick feet. And
then she had come, put her arms round his neck, kissed him, and
looked into his eyes with the warmth of her steadfast worship.
"Is your soul quiet now, dear father?" she asked; and he replied:
"Yes, faith, it's quiet now, my dinky maid."
She sighed with satisfaction.
So they went up together, hand in hand, through the cool curtain of
dusk; with fret of light and shadow all vanished for that day. They
went up speaking very few words into the deepening bloom of night,
while on the sky glimmered the stars again, and in the grass a
glow-worm. From his stony place among the fern, churn-owl throbbed a
lullaby for the whole, drowsy earth; and he touched their human
hearts, old and young, with the mystery of his music--the mystery of
all living songs that waken when the rest of the world is going to
sleep. The two notes whirred on, rising and falling, fainting and
trembling out again.
Then the white face of Huntingdon looked upon them.
"It shan't be your home much longer--I promise that," he whispered;
but as yet Auna knew no other love than love of him.
"Where you are is my home, father," she said.
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