Chapter III: Utility

A longing to annihilate time--to crush it, absorb it, put it behind him--dominated Jacob from the hour of his return. He had been for three days from home and found that nothing specially demanded his attention, save letters which Peter could not write. All went smoothly with his business and he was free to concentrate on the greater matter of his life. He told himself that propitiation would be demanded by many. His wife came first, but he felt that uncertain periods of time must be suffered before he could dare to approach her. With Adam Winter, however, his own feverish desire to begin his task assured Jacob that there need be no delay. To put himself right with this wronged man was the thing nearest to his hand, and two days after returning home, he sought out Adam at Shipley.

It chanced that, as he approached the farm, Samuel emerged from a barn. Seeing Bullstone, he grew very red, his jaw worked, and he mopped and mowed like a monkey, but did not speak. The visitor saw hate in his face and rage uncontrolled by reason. Sammy spat on the ground and glowered and watched his enemy pass to the door. Then, having knocked, Jacob looked around, with an instinct to keep his eye on the weak-minded man. But Adam's brother had already departed.

Amelia Winter answered his call and her face seemed to grow smaller when she looked upon him. She shrank back and her bosom rose and she became pale. She waited for him to speak.

"Good morning, Miss Winter," he said. "I'm very wishful to see your nephew if you will tell me where I am likely to find him."

She did not answer, but left Jacob and went into the house-place. There he heard the murmur of voices, and then Adam came down the stone-paved passage. He was in his working clothes.

"I should think it a great favour if you would let me speak to you for a few minutes," said Bullstone. "I've no right to come before you, but none the less venture to do it."

Adam looked at him without animation or emotion. Only a weary indifference marked his face and echoed in his voice. He was not thinking of Jacob, but his aunt. Amelia had told him that Bullstone would quickly come to grovel. He had much doubted this, but made up his mind to listen if Jacob did seek him.

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

Jacob went in before him, took off his hat and sat down on a chair by the empty hearth. It was the parlour of Shipley and seldom used. Adam Winter, with his hands in his pockets, walked to the window and stood looking out of it.

"Words are poor things before this business," began Bullstone, "and I won't keep you, or waste your time with many. I've wasted enough of your time, and if you could tell me what that waste stood for in figures, I'd be thankful to make it up to you. I'm only here now to express my abiding sorrow and grief at what I've done, and acknowledge how basely I have wronged you. You know I've wronged you, of course--so does the rest of the world; but you didn't yet know that I know it. I want you to understand that I accept the judgment and all that was said against me, because I deserved every word of it. I've done terrible evil, and the fag end of my life I shall spend in trying to make amends, so far as it lies in my power. After my poor wife, you are the one who has got most cause to hate me and most cause to demand from me the utmost atonement I can make. But first I ask you, as a good Christian, called to suffer untold trouble through no fault of your own, to pardon those who have trespassed against you. I beg you to forgive me, Adam Winter, and tell me that you can. That's all for the minute."

Winter listened and nodded his head once or twice. He was listless and melancholy. When he spoke he might have been the worsted man, for his voice had none of the ring and conviction of the other's.

"I forgive you, Jacob Bullstone. That's easy enough. And since you are here, I'll speak too, because some inner things didn't come out at the trial. I want you to know that I never heard tell you were a jealous man. Your wife, no doubt, had cause to know it; but if she ever mentioned the fact to anybody, which is little likely, it wasn't to me. Decent partners hide each other's faults because it's seemly they should, and Mrs. Bullstone wasn't more likely to hint at a soft spot in you than, I suppose, you would have been to whisper any weakness you might have found in her. So I knew nothing, and I came into this horror as innocent as my sheep-dog; and if I'd dreamed how it was, I'd have left Shipley years and years ago, at any cost to myself and my family."

"I believe it," answered Jacob. "I understand the manner of man you are now, and the false light that's blinded me these many years is out. And if I could take your sufferings off your shoulders and endure them for you, thankfully I'd do it. I want to be the only one to suffer now--the only one to carry this burden."

"Yes, yes--no doubt. The past is past, and if the past didn't always flow, like a river, into the present and future, life would be as easy for us as for the beasts, that only know the present. Good-bye. God help you and all of us."

He indicated that the interview was done; but Jacob did not move. He only blundered on, uttering promises and hopes for the future which, to Adam Winter, sounded inconceivably vain.

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

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

"I see nothing," answered Bullstone. "But I feel--I feel everything. The past is past, as you say, and past praying for; but there's the future. I thought perhaps you might--I can't go before her--not for many, many days. But you----"

"Me! Good God, man, what are you made of? Me! Don't you understand? But try--try to understand. Try to understand that other men can feel as much as you do and suffer as much. What you've done don't end with yourself and your troubles; what you've done never will end at all in some directions. It's altered the very stuff of life for a score of people. Poison be poison, and we have each got to fight it in our own way. I shall never speak to Mrs. Bullstone again as long as I live--nor she to me. That goes without speech surely? Haven't you seen even so far? Do you suppose nobody's got to go on living and smarting but you?"

It was Winter who had now grown animated and shown a flash of emotion at Jacob's self-absorbed attitude; while Bullstone sank into greater restraint before this larger vision.

"Thank you," he said, rising. "You put me right. My head's in a whirl. I only felt a great longing come over me. But I dare say it's all too late. I won't trouble you no more. Time will show what I feel to you."

"Hold in then," advised the other, his passing fire dead. "Hold in and give time a chance. You can't do time's work, but you may easily undo it. And if time can't serve you, I don't see what can, always excepting your Maker. But lie low--don't go thrusting forward, just because you've got a longing to get right with people. No doubt you have; but things--there--who am I to preach to you? Leave it, leave it and be gone."

They parted and Jacob, walking on the Brent road to wait for Auna, who had gone that day to the post-office, pondered the new standpoint set before him. He perceived that he had been shameless, and once more stood under correction from the man he had wronged. Adam Winter was right. He must 'hold in.' The storm had yet to burst--the storm of public opinion. He knew not where it might drive him. He had been so eager to start upon the great business of building again that he overlooked the extent of the ruins. His spirit fainted for a little while; and then he turned to think upon Margery and consider her present attitude. Did she recognise the possibility of any reparation? He did not know, yet believed that she presently might. But clearly it was not in his power to anticipate time. He must be patient and endure and see days, weeks, months drag interminably.

He perceived how the disaster had stricken and changed Winter--how deeply it had tinctured his thought and bred bitterness in a man hitherto devoid of bitterness. Winter was right to be impatient with him. He had greatly erred to approach Winter so soon. He saw that restraint was called for, and restraint had always been easy to him until now. He, too, was changed, and no doubt everybody who had endured this violence was also changed, if only for a season. Winter had said that things must always be different for ever. That meant that his evil action would actually leave an impress on character--on many characters.

He wished greatly that his wife were alone, to pursue the future in temporary isolation. Then, with the children to go and come.... But she was not alone and therein he began to see his greatest danger. She would never be alone, and the influences under which she dwelt would be directed against her own nature and qualities, for she was not strong enough, physically or mentally, to oppose her mother. She never had been, even when, as sometimes happened, the will existed to oppose her.

Jacob met Auna speeding homeward and she had not changed. Her caresses and smiles greatly heartened him; but she was timid and clearly under influence. He waited for her to speak of her mother, but she did not.

"I hope mother is pretty well again, Auna?" he asked as they neared home, but Auna shook her head resolutely.

"Grandmother made me promise not to speak of mother. She said you wouldn't wish it; and I did promise, father."

"Then you must keep your promise," he answered. "I've done terrible things, Auna, but I'm punished for doing them, and I'm very sorry for doing them, and I hope in time everybody will forgive me."

"I forgive you," she said, "and I never, never will go away from you, so long as you want me."

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

"Home is home," he told her, and something in the phrase, striking upon thoughts which were hidden from her father, but belonged to her recent experiences, made the child begin to cry. He guessed that she knew of decisions as yet concealed from him, and that she cried rather for him than herself.

"Cheer up," he said. "There's all the future to try and put things right in, Auna. And you to help me--such a helpful treasure is to me always."

"Grandmother," she sobbed, and Jacob began to comprehend. He was still untutored and in no mood for delay. He devoted a great part of that night to writing to Mrs. Huxam, and next day sent a long letter to her by Avis. It was a letter into which he poured the full flood of his contrition. He confessed his error and the horrible ingredient of character that had vitiated life for him and Margery. He declared himself healed and purified, and implored that his wife's parents, from their Christian standpoint, would be merciful to the weak and not bar the door to a reconciliation in the future. He humiliated himself and felt no restraining pride to control his abasement. Finally he invited the Huxams to define the situation, that he might know if the time to come held any hope, and he explained that he left himself entirely in his wife's hands. Anything that she might direct and desire he would perform; he suggested leaving Red House for a time and absenting himself indefinitely should Margery wish to return home. He explained that the empty house at Huntingdon Warren was now rented by him, and that he would be very willing to go there at once and remain there for some months if the proposition commended itself to them. Thus he sought to be even with time by allowing Margery to plan it. He erred every way, but did no harm, because Avis brought his letter back unopened in the evening.

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

He took his bulky packet.

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

"That's all."

"Did you see your mother, Avis?"

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

"This letter was as much for your grandfather as your grandmother," explained Jacob; "and if she won't read it, then he must."

"He won't read it if she tells him not to," answered Avis. "He's against you, same as everybody else is against you, father."

Jacob did not argue upon the subject, but after two days of silence, during which no communication or message reached him, he went into Brent and entered the post-office.

Barlow Huxam was behind the counter and he grew red and puffed his cheeks when he saw Jacob.

"This is very inconvenient," he said, "I wish you wouldn't come here. Nothing can be gained--nothing whatever."

"I didn't want to come; but I wrote to Mrs. Huxam--a very vital letter which I imagined she would show to you. All she did was to return it to me unopened. That is senseless, because the position must be defined. We must know where we stand."

Barlow considered.

"It is defined," he answered. "Nothing could be more definite and we know where we stand very well. You heard with your ears I suppose--same as everybody else in court. Your case broke down and you became a laughing-stock to all honest men, and the judge summed up against you and told you the fearful truth about yourself, to which your own nature had long made you a stranger. The case was dismissed and you were left to pay the costs. That's all there is to it, Jacob Bullstone, and I suppose you don't want me or anybody else to tell you what follows."

"That's exactly what I do want you to tell me; and that you might be the better able to tell me, I wrote this letter, explaining how I stand to you and your wife and my wife. I have a right to ask you to read it, Mr. Huxam."

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

Judith entered the shop at this moment, perceived the men were talking and the woman in the postal department was listening.

"If you'll come through into the private room, Mr. Bullstone," she said, "it will be better."

She lifted a bridge in the counter and he, winning hope from her peaceful tone, followed into a room behind. Barlow accompanied them and explained to his wife.

"He says he's in his right we read his letter, and I deny it. He has no rights."

"Since he's forced himself here," she said in her quiet, level voice, "he can listen, and then he can go. But speak he shall not to me. 'Rights!' What rights has a man who puts his wife away from him on a foul lie? What rights has a man who breaks up his home and drives his family to fly from him for their salvation? Let him understand this: he doesn't exist for us any more. We don't know him and don't dirty our lips, or our thoughts, with his name. Never--never, so long as any of us live. We're Christians here, and we have forgiven the awful wrong done against us, because well we know that our Maker called us to suffer it. And I see clear enough now why. But that's our affair, and if we endure evil that good may come, that's no reason why we should suffer the evil made flesh in the shape of this man. Far from it. We've forgiven before our God; but before our God also, we stand here and say we'll have no more truck with the source of our sufferings and shame. For us he is a nameless terror to fly from, as we fly from his master, the Devil."

"Is that forgiveness?" asked Bullstone.

"It has nothing to do with forgiveness. You are forgiven; but what comes after is our duty to our Creator, who orders us to avoid evil and all those damned to ever-lasting fire."

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

"No. I'm speaking for my husband and family--my children and my grandchildren. By the will of God a lost soul, such as you are, can be suffered to breed saved souls. That's a mystery; but so it happens. And when your children come of age, they'll be faced with their duty; and they'll see it very clear indeed. Now I'll ask you to go; and it will be better, when you have dealings with the post-office, to send a messenger and never come again yourself so long as we remain here."

She spoke slowly and without emotion. Jacob looked at his father-in-law.

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

"Ditto to every word of it," answered Barlow. "And so would any man who sees his wronged child wilting like a flower, and marks her bitter sufferings and ruined home and broken heart. And----"

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

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

He began to grasp the situation at last, and surveyed his futile ambitions since the trial.

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

He determined on huge patience and felt where the fight must lie. Nothing was clear and nothing could be clear, until he saw his wife, face to face, without witnesses. Only a far future might open any such opportunity, even if she allowed him to take it when it came. His course seemed evident to him. He must contrive through some secret channel to learn what his wife was thinking and planning. But he doubted not that, unlike himself, her mind was still in flux and no anodyne deadening her resentment. Forgiveness, in any other than a religious sense, must be vain for many days.

He leapt from one extreme to the other, and having sought an understanding instantly, out of his instinctive rage for action, now told himself that years must pass before any light could be hoped. For a full twelve months he vowed to himself that he would not raise a finger. Half his savings had been swallowed up by the trial at law. He dwelt on the necessity for hard work and increase of business, to make good this serious loss. Work had proved a panacea on many occasions of past tribulation; work had helped time to stretch a gulf between former troubles and himself. He must fall back upon work now.

His punishment had begun and he prepared to welcome it, still trusting time to bring some Indian summer for his later days. He admitted the justice of long-drawn retribution. It was right that an extended vengeance should be required. He welcomed it and bent his spirit to endure it, thus assuming a temporary pose and attitude which it was impossible that his character could sustain.