Chapter XIV: End of a Home

That night, while Margery had sat below and from time to time strove to reach him, Jacob Bullstone occupied many hours with writing. He had set down the web of testimony woven over many years--the long horror of suspicion, now culminated in proof irrefragable. Scene by scene, incident by incident, his remorseless memory gathered every thread of the pitiful fabric. It seemed that a stage was lighted within his brain, whereon act succeeded after act of his married life. It did not surprise him that the narrative presented itself in such orderly sequence, for all had long been printed upon the pages of his mind, and, looking back, one fact alone astonished him: that he should have patiently endured his dishonour until the final climax. From his own standpoint, the account, as he set it down, appeared lucid and trustworthy. A stranger, reading it without bias or other knowledge, had been convinced of its reality. By a thousand touches truth seemed to stand confessed. That another story as good, in contravention of Bullstone's statement, could be created out of the same material he did not imagine. Jacob wrote quite calmly, only holding his pen when his wife came, to break the silence with entreaty. Then after she had gone he proceeded, and not until the work was done did nature demand rest. He fell asleep, indeed, a few moments after he had ceased to write. The compilation acted like an anodyne; the mechanical work of setting all down calmed him; and at the finish he lay back in his chair and slumbered heavily.

At dawn he awoke, and about the hour when Margery began to sleep, he rose, made a packet of his papers, put on his coat and boots and went downstairs. It was too early to pursue his purpose, but he would not loiter and, as the maid appeared to open the house and light the fire, Jacob set out for Brent, leaving no message behind him. Not much snow had fallen and the sky was white and clear.

He began to collect his thoughts and found that they persistently ran on into the future, after what he now planned to do should be done. He was busy thus when an incident brought him back to the present and loosened passion.

Adam Winter was astir, sweeping the snow away from his outer gate. He saw Bullstone, flung down his broom and came out to intercept him.

His smiling face sent the blood through the other's head and Jacob trembled with rage as the smaller man came to him.

"Got to thank you for thicky, brave fruit last night I expect. Like you to leave it and----"

The other roared:

"It's over--it's done, you God damned scoundrel--all's done--all's known!"

Adam stared, and then a heavy fist smashed into his face and Jacob's other hand was swung to the side of his head.

He reeled; his hat flew off; half blind and groping, with his arms thrust before him, he fell. He lifted himself to his knees, but dropped again, giddy and scarcely conscious. He supposed that he confronted a madman, for there existed no shadow of meaning to him in this assault. He had once or twice seen his brother suffer from like paroxysms.

"Man, man, that's bad," he said gently, with one hand to his head, the other supporting him. "That's a wicked thing to do, master, and you'll be sorry for it."

Bullstone was gone. His fury sped him on his way, and not until he had breasted a hill did he slow down and his mind grow calmer. For some time he rejoiced at what he had done; then he began to be sorry for it. Often enough he had been tempted to physical violence against Winter; once or twice he had felt a gathering lust to do violence to Margery; but he had escaped the peril until this moment. Now ill chance had thrust his enemy upon him at an hour when self-control was impossible. As the sun rose he mourned his act, not for itself, but because it was a mean thing to smite a man just recovered from sickness--a blot on the large, inexorable plan now waiting accomplishment. He had succumbed to Nature, after successfully fighting her for so long. That any fellow-creature would blame him--that any husband would have thought the worse of him for killing Winter with his hands--he did not for a moment imagine; but his act stood out of harmony with the long story of his patience and restraint. It was beneath his character and reputation. He remembered an ancestor who had taken the law into his own hands and destroyed both the man and wife who dishonoured him. That was a deed orbicular, complete and tremendous; but he dreamed of no such course. He had sunk from his own high standards and regretted it.

Then he dismissed Winter and returned again to all that was going to happen when the Law had freed him. He meant to divorce his wife and begin a new existence; but he did not mean that the end of his days should be ruined and his destiny changed by tribulation forced upon him from without. He held himself guiltless and stainless. He was only one of many honest men who had been called to endure like indignity and disaster; but the sympathy of mankind would lie with him; and his own steadfast nature and large patience might be counted to gather up the ravelled texture of his life and carry on the old design in a manner worthy of him and his family.

So he argued and, keeping those who had wronged him out of his thoughts, reflected upon his children. They must not suffer for the loss of a wicked mother. Nor did he fear it. They were old enough to understand and would appreciate the situation. John Henry was already established on land presently to be his own. Peter would stay at Red House and gradually assume command; for Red House and the business some day must fall to his portion. Avis would marry in a year or two and go to Owley Farm. There remained Auna, and for Auna he felt no fear. She was his own, his nearest and dearest--all that he would soon have left. She would never leave him until the breath was out of his body. The future stretched stark and clean. He must suffer, and he began to realise how deeply; but the intermittent pangs of the future would not corrode and sear as the torment of the past. He knew that he might struggle back to peace, given the time to do it, for with self-respect all things are possible, and he felt that he had already regained that.

He dwelt on details. When she was free of him, the other man would doubtless take her. Whither would he take her? They could not live at Shipley in sound of his voice. The excuses to stop at Shipley would not hold now. The woman would see to that and remove herself beyond reach, both of him and her own outraged family. He thought of Judith and Barlow Huxam and imagined their dismay.

And meantime, with the snow-blink on one side of their faces and the firelight on the other, Margery and her children sat at breakfast. She had heard from Barton Gill that Jacob was not in the kennels, and after putting off the questions of Avis and Peter for a time, something seemed to break in her heart. A sense of destruction mastered her and she began to cry. Her reserve and the caution, practised a thousand times to disarm the children's questions when Jacob would not speak, deserted her. She was indifferent and could no longer pretend anything after the events of the previous night. She was also physically exhausted and had no wits longer to parry the youthful attack. She told them that their father was very angry with her and had said that he never meant to speak to her again. And then she succumbed and wept helplessly before them.

Avis was awed and Peter angry.

"I hate father--I hate him!" he cried. "He's a bad man, and this isn't the first time he's made you miserable."

"John Henry will protect you, mother," said Avis. "And I'll hate father too, if he's cruel to you. And so will grandmother Huxam."

Auna put her arms round her mother's neck.

"Forgive him," she said. "You always make it up with us when we are naughty. Perhaps you was naughty, or said something he didn't understand."

"It's him says things we don't understand," declared Peter, "and mother's never naughty, and you ought to be ashamed to say it, Auna."

"We're often naughty without knowing it, Peter," explained Auna.

"Well, and if we are, how can we know we're naughty when nobody tells us?" asked Avis. "Father won't speak to mother, and how can you make it up if a person won't speak to you?"

"You can speak to them," said Auna.

Her mother was in the broken-spirited state when an adult will talk with children as equals.

"I did speak to him, Auna," she said. "I prayed him to listen and tell me what I'd done. But I'm never to hear him speak again."

"Then more won't I," declared Peter. "God's my judge, mother, if father don't say he's sorry for being such a beast, I'll run away from him."

"And so will I," added Avis. "And if I was you, I'd run away too, mother. Then where would he be?"

Auna, terrified at these words, crept out of the room and ran away to hide her own tears. Then Margery dried her eyes and controlled herself.

"Don't you pay no heed to the silly things I've said--either of you. It'll come right. And I won't have no hard words against father. A better father and a kinder and more generous, no children ever had. So never let me hear you say one word against him, for that I couldn't bear. He'll come home all right I expect; and don't let him see nothing but smiles when he does. And both forget I was such a silly mother as to cry about nothing. Where's Auna? I've frightened the child. Now you be off to the kennels, both of you, and sweep the snow away, and let's all be ashamed of ourselves."

Thus she sought to undo the mischief of her weakness, and partially succeeded; but her own moods swept her like a cross-sea, and when the interminable hours of the morning had passed, when noon came, and dinner time, and still Jacob did not return, she began to lose her nerve again.

She yearned for her mother, and the longing grew until at last, unable to endure more, she dressed for walking and slipped out of Red House unknown to the children. At every turn of the way to Brent she expected to meet Jacob; but he did not appear. He was coming back by Lydia Bridge and reached his home an hour after Margery had left it. He guessed that she had gone not to return, and was glad. He had spent the morning with his lawyer, a man older than himself, who expressed deep concern at hearing his opinions and prayed for patience and delay. Mr. Dawes had worked for Jacob's father before him and felt staggered by this most unexpected disaster. He read the record while Jacob sat and waited; then he argued for time, for reconsideration and explanations--at worst a separation for the family's sake. But he spoke to deaf ears and Jacob presently explained that he was there to direct and not receive advice. The lawyer's talk appeared worse than vain from his standpoint, for all was already accomplished and only the details remained. His evidence assured the sequel. The incredulity of Mr. Dawes made Bullstone impatient and the lawyer's lamentations he nipped in the bud. He left explicit directions to institute proceedings for divorce against his wife and cited Adam Winter as co-respondent. Once more Mr. Dawes protested at the absurdity of the situation. Against Adam no whisper had ever been heard. He enjoyed a reputation for plain-dealing and stood well among the Chosen Few.

But Jacob declined argument.

"I'm here to issue orders," he said, "and you're here to carry them out. If you won't, I can put my business into other hands."

Thus it was left and the solicitor, deeply concerned for both parties, read and re-read Jacob's statement, yet felt the issue to be in the highest degree doubtful. He could barely believe the truth of Bullstone's claims and he suspected that the other parties might well deny them and fight him. He perceived the horror of such a situation, and determined at any cost to change his client's mind, if it were possible to do so. He decided for the moment to brave Bullstone's anger and do nothing at all. He would at least give the man time to grow calm and consider the gravity of his intentions. As yet Jacob was far from calm; he stood too near the evidence of his own senses, and Mr. Dawes perceived that he was beyond reason for the moment. He left it and only hoped that Bullstone would not throw down his challenge, and so drive his wife from him for ever.

But this climax was reached before the end of that day.

At dusk Mr. and Mrs. Huxam drove up to Red House in a cab, asked to see Jacob and were shown into the parlour. They did not bring Margery, but came for an explanation of her husband's conduct.

Jacob was in the kennels when they arrived and quickly joined them. He brought in a lamp with him and set it on the table.

Barlow Huxam spoke as soon as the door was shut.

"Our daughter came to us this afternoon in a very poor way," he said. "It seems that last night you swore before her face never to let her hear your voice again. You kept your word to-day and went to Brent this morning and didn't return. She waited until far beyond forenoon and then came to us. If you can explain this in a manner to satisfy me and my wife, I'll be glad, because on the face of it, it looks as if you'd took leave of your senses, Jacob."

"I've taken leave of my honour, that's all," answered Bullstone. "Or it would be truer to say that my honour has been stolen from me by my wife. You understand what I mean no doubt. I've got proof positive and shall act accordingly. I'm sorry for you too."

"Good God! You stand there and dare to say and think that Margery's not faithful to you?"

"Saying and thinking matter nothing now. I've said too little, Barlow Huxam, and I've thought too much. Now I know--I know. It's in my lawyer's hands--Mr. Dawes--and you'll hear from him, if you're going to stand for your daughter."

"Let's be clear," answered Huxam, who was now very angry. "Let's get to the bottom of this, before we see you for the last time I hope. What shall we hear from Mr. Dawes?"

"You'll hear that I'm going to divorce my wife for her adulteries--that's what you'll hear."

"You dare to stand there before me and tell that damnable lie. Margery! Margery! And you've lived with her for near twenty years and can think it! What filth are you made of? What poisonous, beastly stuff has got into you? Her--the clean, pure thing--with nought but honest blood in her veins and honest thoughts in her mind! Her--adultery--you're a madman!"

"You'd better go," answered Bullstone quietly. "If she doesn't own it, so much the worse. There's no defence for either of them. I'm not mad, though my Maker knows I've endured enough to make me. I want to hear nothing about her--or him. I want to be free, and I mean to be free."

Then Judith Huxam spoke. She had been sitting motionless while her husband walked up and down the room. She had turned very pale, when Jacob stated his determination, and she had put her hand up to her breast and kept it there. She was quite collected and showed no emotion.

"And who is the man, Jacob Bullstone?" she asked.

"Adam Winter is her paramour."

"That godly, steadfast creature!"

Barlow spoke and bade his wife rise and accompany him.

"We'll be gone. This must be answered by others than us," he said.

But Mrs. Huxam did not move. A strange expression was in her face. She looked coldly and curiously at Jacob. Then a faint flush lightened her pallor.

"The mills of God grind slow but exceeding sure," she said. "I understand; I know what's happened now, and you'll know presently. Eighteen and more years ago I came into this room for the first time, and I saw a sight that shook me to the roots of my being. I saw that you'd flung another book to lie on the Bible. Looking back, I've often wondered why I didn't stop your marriage with our daughter on that. But the Lord chose that things should go on; and they went on. And He was looking ahead to this; and, in His mercy, He showed me yesterday that nothing better than this could have happened. He showed me yesterday, when you spoke blasphemies in my ears, that it was time Margery left you if she was to save her soul. So I'm not surprised at what you've told me to-night. This is all God's plan. He chooses strange tools to do His work, as you said yesterday, and He's chose you yourself and no other, to part you from your wife. You understand that, don't you? It ain't Adam Winter, or any other man, that's come between you and the mother of your children. It's yourself--led to it by an outraged God. You are one of the doomed and always was, as I've known too well these many days, though, Christian like, I hoped and prayed for you. But the Lord knew, and He's took our child from the evil to come and--hear this--He'll take your children from the evil to come also. There must be offences, Jacob Bullstone, but woe--woe to them that bring them! Our child shall hear your voice no more as you have sworn; and neither shall you hear her voice, nor see her again, nor yet her shadow. If you'd been a saint till now, this piece of work would have damned you, and henceforth you'll go the scorn of every self-respecting woman and the hate of every man. And you'll call on the hills to cover you, but they won't."

She got up and looked at her husband.

"Now we can go," she said.

"And understand this," added Barlow, whose voice, even in passion, sounded genial and mellow contrasted with his wife's--"Mind this, you dirty dog, if I spend every farthing I have on earth, and have got to borrow more on my knees from my neighbours, I'll fight you to the end, till my daughter's righted in the face of the nation. And when that's done, may God help you, for there won't be any other party to do it. And Winter will say the same."

Jacob was unshaken.

"The spoken word remains," he answered, "and the long story remains--every item--stamped in my brain for eternity. They may lie; but justice is justice. No power on earth can undo what's done, or leave it doubtful."

"You speak true," said Mrs. Huxam. "God Almighty will see to that. There'll be no shadow of doubt on earth, or in hell, or heaven, when this is blazed to the light."

They went out to drive away. Snow had begun to fall again and the full force of a blizzard was reserved for this night.

"Best tell your driver to go by the lower road," said Jacob calmly, as he stood and saw them depart. "There'll be drifts already on the other way."