Chapter I: Chorus

Within a month of his wife's departure, Jacob Bullstone began to perceive the full significance of the thing that he had done.

He learned that his petition would be opposed and he received from Barlow Huxam a cheque, being the present market value of the land on which the postmaster's house was in course of erection. And time had opened his eyes to other issues, for he found that the sympathy he anticipated was not forthcoming. Acquaintances evaded him, and when he expected his few friends to express regret at his misfortunes, they did not. Indeed all were anxious to avoid the subject on such occasions as they were unable to avoid him. From a brief, unnatural quest of fellow-creatures, therefore, and an inner impulse, to seek a spirit of support, Jacob soon turned back into himself, since no such spirit appeared. Time dragged and he grew more and more restless on discovering the body of public opinion ranged against him.

One thing he had done, two days after the outrage that demanded it. He had first written to Adam Winter expressing his regret for his violence; and he had then torn up the letter and gone to see the master of Shipley in person.

He learned that Samuel Winter was ill and Adam on the land. Their aunt spoke to him, and if looks could have done him evil, Jacob must have suffered. She answered his questions with the fewest words possible, then shut the door in his face.

Jacob sought Winter, found him presently, walked up to him and spoke.

"I only want to say this: that I'm sorry I struck you. I was three parts mad at the time. But I did a wrong thing to assault you and I'm prepared to suffer my penalty in that matter."

Adam was not at work. He walked on the sheltered side of a hedge, with his hands in his pockets, and now he looked curiously at the other.

"Do such a trifle as that trouble you?" he asked. "Well, I've heard you. Now you'd better go. There's nothing to be said between us till I answer you afore the law."

"Are you wise to deny it and bring me to the proofs?"

The other cut him short.

"Go," he said, and Jacob turned away.

He puzzled not a little to understand why his wife's family were prepared to defend the case, and supposed that they must honestly believe their daughter to be wronged. He explained this on the assumption that appearances set against the likelihood of such an offence, and they knew not that the final evidence was in his own possession. He had conversations with his lawyer and found Mr. Dawes not in the least helpful. The old man had obeyed him with extreme reluctance; but he did not pretend to be in sympathy with his client, and the fact that both Jacob's wife and Adam Winter were prepared to oppose the appeal and deny the offence went far to make Mr. Dawes still less sanguine. He tried again and again to change Bullstone's mind and failed; but his attitude served to create increased bewilderment in the other. Indeed Jacob puzzled to see how isolated he had become. The fact made him still more determined and still more distrustful of everybody but himself. He resented such lack of understanding and was impelled by it to trumpery emotions, ridiculous in the light of his present huge affliction. They persisted, however, and his wounded pride drove him forward with increasing obstinacy to fight to the end, that his wrongs might be proved and his justification appear. There awoke a desire to confound those who now set flowing the tides of criticism against him. They came as a new thing, contrary to experience, for he had always understood that the betrayed husband might count upon the support of most serious-minded people. At home there was no pity for him save in one quarter. The children came and went from their grandparents, and he had expected that they might bring messages; but they never did. Not a syllable ever reached him from his wife, or from the Huxams. Indeed his own boy and elder girl were restive and taciturn under this terrible situation. Once Avis reported that Margery was ill, and Peter openly corrected her for mentioning her mother at Red House. Only Auna continued trustful, but she missed her mother and was very downcast and silent. She, too, went to see Margery; but even she had nothing to say on returning home.

Once Jacob asked Auna if her mother were at the post-office; but the girl only looked frightened and shook her head. Whereupon he soothed her.

"Don't take on, Auna. Trust me. The others can't, but you understand me best. You must trust me as much as you love me. Mother and I have got to part, because she has done what I can't forgive. Indeed she wouldn't come back any more if she could. She won't want to do that. But I hope you'll stop with me, because I don't see how we could ever live without each other. But you must all decide that for yourselves when I've been to London."

It was a strange speech to Auna's ear, yet she felt no doubt. To live away from her mother seemed a terrible thought, but life away from her father must be impossible. She told herself that she would sooner be dead than live without him, and she assured him of the fact; whereupon he warned her.

"Always think that whatever may happen," he said. "There will be people who will tell you that I am the wicked one; but everybody will know differently before very long. For God forbid that I should tell anything but the truth, Auna; and the truth is enough. And many hate me and speak evil against me, and I know Avis and Peter believe it, and John Henry believes it, else he'd have been over to see me before now. But you mustn't believe it. You mustn't let anything come between us, Auna."

Already with proleptic instinct he sought to tighten the bonds between the child and himself; already he felt that a time might quickly come when, of all his family, she alone would be left. But only a passing mood prompted him to this scene with the girl. Again and again, while time dragged intolerably and he smarted under consciousness of the people's aversion, he calmed himself with assurance that time would soon vindicate and justify. Then those who now lacked pity for his plight, or anger against his wrongs, would be the first to come forward and acknowledge their errors.

One supporter he had--of a sort who rather embarrassed him than not. Yet the new kennel-man, George Middleweek, was staunch enough, and having gleaned particulars of the situation, though not from Bullstone, resolutely upheld Jacob.

Middleweek succeeded Barton Gill, who had now finally withdrawn from Red House to live in a cottage half a mile distant, and since the new-comer's character was clouded by past intemperance, he entertained a lively regard for Jacob, when he took him on trial against so grave a fault. But Mr. Middleweek understood dogs and promised to be valuable. He swore by his new master from the first and also won Peter's regard.

He was a widower of fifty, and he had the wit to take something of Jacob's measure after a month at Red House. Then he ventured on a friendly word or two and feared that he had been unwise, since Jacob took no notice at the time; but, later on, George perceived that his goodwill had been acceptable.

A week before all interested parties would be called to London, Bullstone visited William Marydrew, though a shadow now existed between them. For even William proved no whole-hearted friend in Jacob's opinion, and he had been astonished to find that the old man terribly doubted.

William declared the tragedy a personal one; he felt for both parties and was aged by a misfortune so unexpected.

"I thought nobody would question that I was right," said Jacob, "and yet such is the regard in most people for the woman over the man that even you----"

"But you can't well understand, from your own-self point, how this looks to the world at large, including me," explained William. "It's come on all the nation like a bolt from the blue, because no thought of such a fatal thing ever fouled the air. The dirtiest tongue would not have dared to whisper it. 'Tis beyond belief and experience of the parties; and what seems the gathered knowledge of many days to you, falls on our ears like a clap of thunder. And so you can't expect folk to side with you as a matter of course, Jacob. On the contrary, 'tis the last thing you might have expected with such a record for fine living and clean behaviour as your wife has. And the last straw was when we heard that she and Adam Winter deny and defy you and he going to stand up for their good names. The common people don't know much, but where human nature's the matter, they be quite as clever as the scholars, and often a damn sight cleverer; because the poor are up against human nature all the time and life teaches them the truth about it; whereas the other kind miss it, owing to book larning being so mighty different. And hearing that Adam and Mrs. Bullstone are going to fight you, the people take their side; because well they know they wouldn't stand up before a judge and jury if their cause weren't good. No--they'd cut and run, as you expected to see 'em."

"The people argue without knowledge of the facts," answered Jacob; "but you, who have heard the facts from me in secret and know whereon my case stands--how you can still hold the balance against me, for all our long friendship--that puzzles me, William."

"I'm a truthful man where my memory will let me be," answered Mr. Marydrew, "and so I won't pretend anything. Words have as many meanings as a songbird have notes, Jacob, and the ear be often bluffed into believing things by the mind that is hungry to believe 'em. Against the words, which sounded to your ear as if them two was in each other's arms, you've got to balance what's mightier than words. That's deeds and the conduct of a lifetime, and principles that have never been doubted. Winter's life all men know. He's religious in a true sense, and though I've got no use for the Chosen Few, no more than you have, yet you can't deny that there's never been one of 'em catched out in a crooked deed."

"It's that canting, stiff-necked sort who always are caught soon or late," answered Jacob, "and I'll say this, William: I believe that if my late wife had had her way, she'd have been much too clever to take this line. She knows the damnable truth in her heart, and she's been driven into denying it by her parents--not for her own sake, but their credit. She never told them the truth of course. And if she had, seeing there are no witnesses that I can call, they'd deny it."

But Billy shook his head.

"Mrs. Huxam wouldn't have made her husband fight for a lie. She believes that her daughter is a wronged woman, and she'll be true to her rooted faith, that this has happened for good by the will of God. Of course I don't believe that everything that happens is to the good myself, but Judith Huxam holds to that opinion, and she's saying that what you've done puts you down and out for eternity, while it opens the door to your wife's salvation, which you were making doubtful. You'll find that this dreadful job won't shake her in her opinion, that God's behind all; and the upshot won't shake you in your opinion, that God have nothing to do with our disasters--beyond building us in a pattern that's bound to breed 'em.

"You and me agree that the evil that matters to us comes from within--so there you are. And the pity is that the evil we breed can't stop with us, but must pour over for other people; and that again shows it isn't only the evil we breed from within matters, because we be all called upon to suffer, more or less, from the evil that others breed. In fact 'tis a very pitiful come-along-of-it every way and I wish to God I'd gone to my rest afore it happened."

Thus William discoursed; but he did not depress his hearer. Jacob Bullstone could only wonder at the blindness of his neighbours. He wasted no more time in resenting it. He only pressed forward to the hour when all would justify him and grant that he was not deceived.

Billy changed the subject, though that was difficult to do. During these tumultuous days he dreaded the appearance of Bullstone and sometimes even made shift to avoid him. For, like many others, he was deeply sensible of his friend's approaching downfall and, unlike many others, who now hated Jacob, he--a lifelong friend--mourned for the future and feared the shape that it must take with such a man.

"How's your new hand, George Middleweek?" he asked. "He's a chap as knows his own mind--faulty though it is."

"A success. I like him, because he is sane and understanding. After Barton Gill he's a comfort. He has character and a pretty good knowledge of life. And he won't fall over the drink again. I've let him into my feelings a bit--not about my troubles, but my opinions in general. He's a widower and doesn't trust religious people, nor yet women."

William laughed at this description.

"So much the more time to give to the dogs. I've often known them as was devoted to dogs didn't like women. Yet, though they be oftener compared to cats, I've known a good few dog-like women also. Not so much dog-like towards men, but dog-like to duty and religion and children and so on. My daughter, Mercy, was such a woman. Duty and religion were one with her. In fact duty was her religion and she made it a very good working faith. For what more can you ask of religion than to keep you out of mischief and to make you live in honesty and charity with your neighbours? That's reality; but a lot of religion is not. I knew a saint of God once, and she was on all accounts the most objectionable woman I ever did know--made the very thought of Heaven chilly. A bleak, holy woman, as never did a wrong thing, or thought a wrong thought, and yet left the bulk of her neighbours in a beastly temper after she'd been along with them five minutes. How she did it nobody could understand. The very parson she sat under gave her a miss when he could."

"Women have wronged men far oftener than men have wronged them," said Bullstone and William sighed doubtfully.

"There's less understanding between the men and women than there was," he answered. "Education drives 'em apart instead of draws 'em together. The women be getting so famous clever that they see a lot about us that used to be hidden from 'em, and we don't bulk so grand in their eyes as we did. They have a deal hidden in 'em that's been waiting to come out; and now it's beginning to do so. It was always there, mind you, but hid under ignorance, and I say us men haven't half known our luck all these years."

Jacob listened.

"They're changing for the worse," he said.

"They are trying out the stuff hid in 'em," repeated William. "Woman be God A'mighty's last creation, Jacob, and no doubt He worked into 'em pretty near everything He'd got left over. Us never will understand all there is to 'em, and only a fool thinks he can."

"I was such a fool."

"Don't drag yourself in. Keep your mind open. That's what I pray you to do. You've appealed to the Law and you must abide by the Law. And if it holds that you are mistook; then----" He broke off and took the younger man's hand.

"I'm your friend, be it as it may," he said.

Jacob nodded, shook the ancient hand and went his way without words.

For a moment he considered William's broken sentence, but could not see what might have finished it.

Indeed Mr. Marydrew himself felt the fatuity of any ultimate thought or hope at this crisis.

With very genuine grief in his eyes he watched Bullstone depart.

"Broke on the wheel of the world, because he weren't turned true," he said to himself. "But which of us be? Which of us be? Not one."