Chapter IV: Auna Tries

Margery Bullstone had never poured herself out and lost her stream in the river of her husband, after the fashion of certain devoted wives. She had loved him truly, generously, until time and chance and the wear and attrition of dissimilar natures fretted the love thin; but her own individuality persisted always, being maintained by the close touch which she kept with its sources: her parents and her old home. Without that forcible influence she might have merged more completely in Jacob and his interests; but her attitude to her mother had ever been one of great respect and reverence, and she implanted the same in her children, as they came to years of understanding. A different husband--one who saw life nearer her own vision--had, perhaps, won her completely to the diminishing of other and earlier influences; but Bullstone failed in this by his own limitations and oppositions; therefore when the culmination came and his deep-rooted sickness overthrew her home, Margery left Red House thankfully and regarded her liberty with relief.

She was sustained in this emotion until after the excitement of the trial, and everything, during the months before that event, contributed to support her spirit; but only a false activity is that of those who feed upon their wrongs; and when all was over and the business of her future life had to be faced, there came gusts of reaction to Margery and a realisation,--slow, fitful, painful--of the change for the worse. She caught herself looking back, and the alterations in her mental and physical life bore fruit. She was as one suddenly widowed; but the inevitability brought by death and the sense of a common lot was not here to help her endure the bewildering dislocation and destruction. All that she had made was gone, and she was faced with the necessity to build up a new existence, differing in every condition from the old. Even peace was denied her. She could not think for herself, for every half-spoken thought was taken out of her lips and developed by her mother. She suffered domination, but found it a sorry substitute for her old independence. She could not be a child again. Only her own children were left, and from them, also, a new mind was demanded. But they were going on with their lives: her life had stopped, and none at present guessed the psychological significance of this sudden hiatus in Margery's existence.

She felt ill when she returned from London with her father, and having participated in her triumph, slowly sickened at the aspect of the future now presented and the convulsion created by dropping from a full life into an empty one. Her old physical weakness increased. A change was urged upon her by the village doctor, who had always attended her, and she went to stay with her uncle, Lawrence Pulleyblank, at Plymouth. But associations caused her to suffer so acutely here, that it was clear nothing could be gained by present sojourn in her uncle's house. She came back to Brent, and then fell the first shadow of implicit antagonisms between herself and her mother. For Judith contrived that Margery should not see her children alone upon their constant visits; while she sought opportunity to do so. Mrs. Huxam indeed felt little need to insist upon the condition, for she had no reason to doubt of her daughter's attitude. It was only a measure of precaution, and she had instilled the need for silence upon all of them. At present she detected no premonition of mental weakness in Margery and did not anticipate it. But her daughter's health was bad; she ate too little, shirked exercise and remained melancholy, listless and indifferent. Judith held her state easy to understand, and had enough imagination to grant that it must be some time before Margery would regain nerve, courage and peace of mind; but that the woman, now idle and incapacitated, was looking back and dwelling in the past, Mrs. Huxam, though she might have granted, would not have regarded as likely. The past could offer no healing drought for Margery. She found easy present occupation, therefore, drew her daughter into the shop sometimes and contrived short errands for her. Then Barlow pointed out that to use Margery as though she were a child again was not seemly.

To her father, Jacob's wife talked in a way she would not have spoken before her mother. Indeed her rare moments of animation belonged to him, and he was glad to let her speak of the past and forget the future in so doing. She had aged and had grown indifferent to her appearance; but the old, good days could still charm her into forgetfulness, though from the pleasant memories, return to her new life always brought reaction. Her vitality grew less as her instinctive desire for a different environment increased.

It was now understood that Jacob Bullstone's name should not be spoken, and his children were directed neither to mention their father, when they came to the post-office, nor convey any information concerning their mother to Red House. Jacob accepted this arrangement, while Margery was also constrained to do so, since she did not see her children alone. John Henry abstained from Red House after his parents parted, but he saw his mother weekly and, of course, declared himself upon her side.

"And so is every one else," he told his grandmother; "and I feel shame for the first time in my life--shame to know I'm my father's son."

This attitude he openly confessed and it was not hidden from Bullstone.

In Barlow Huxam's presence Margery sometimes allowed herself to speak of her husband. He flinched on the first occasion; but suffered it afterwards, perceiving that she won some twilight satisfaction from analysing the reason for her misfortune.

The new house rose rapidly and his daughter often accompanied the postmaster to see progress on summer evenings, when the day's work had ended and the labourers were gone.

At such times she indicated to him a little of the chaos of her present days and their lack of everything that had made life worthy to be lived.

"I was often sorry for myself," she said on one occasion, while they had sat to rest on a pile of red tiles for the new roof. "Sorry I was; yet now looking back, father, I can see that, for all its frets, I was leading a woman's full, bustling, busy life. Often it was good work, and the need to be planning and looking forward kept me hearty and strong. And now--all gone, and me turned so weak that I'm no more use to anybody."

He bade her fasten upon the future.

"You did your duty in all things, and you need feel no remorse about one hour of your married life," he said. "That's ended for no fault of yours, but through the disaster of marrying a dangerous madman--to call him no worse. Such lunatic men have often cut the throats of their innocent wives; but he done otherwise, and if he'd cut his own, he might have escaped a good deal that lies before him; and so might you. You must steadfastly fix before your mind that he has wronged you in the awfulest way a man can wrong a good wife; and you must also feel that, but for the mercy of God, worse things might well have happened to you. Put him out of your thoughts. Banish him as you would the vision of sin, Margery."

"Easy to say and easy to do sometimes; but not always," she answered. "The difficulties that you and mother think are curing themselves have hardly begun for me; because time works both ways. It lessens your pain; but it throws a different light on the sources of your pain. Some women would never lose sight of the wrong and I haven't yet; but I'm weaker than a good many. You want to be strong, like mother, to hate for ever, and I ban't built to do it."

"You must seek strength from your mother then," he answered. "She's got strength for us all, and she hates evil unsleepingly, because her mind is built on faith and justice and she looks out of eyes that never grow dim."

"Yes, I know. I love her. In some of my moods I see how grand she is; and in others I slink away, because, after all, there is such a thing as mercy. I've got time to think, and think nowadays as never I had before. There wasn't time to think in my married life, nor yet leisure to weigh things and stand outside them. I was in it all, and you can't weigh things if you are part of the reason why they happen. Now--torn away, or drove away--I can see Jacob better. He knew so little about real life and never seemed to want to know about it. I felt that Avis and John Henry had more sense of character and judged people truer than he could. He lived a very small life for choice, and it made him narrow and fostered this awful thing in him, till it grew up and wrecked him. He loved nature, but nature couldn't keep his mind sweet for long. And justice sometimes makes me see that what all looked such moonshine in the court, must have looked horribly real to him--before he rose and struck me."

"Because he was insane on that one subject and bent everything to that vile purpose."

"There it is!" she answered. "That's the point. If he was insane, as you say, then where do we stand? If those that are near and dear to us turned lepers to-morrow, should we fly from them? I feel a great deal has to be thought and said on that view, father; but I know nothing will come of it with mother, because she never changes. To her, madness is one thing and wickedness another; but grant madness, then there's no wickedness."

Mr. Huxam was a little startled before this attitude; for Margery had never yet indicated weakening, and these words clearly pointed in that direction.

"You're on dangerous ground and had better not pursue it," he answered. "We know where we stand, and when I said the man was a lunatic, I meant no more than a figure of speech. All sin may be madness seen one way; but we don't treat all sinners as madmen, else there'd be more ready to be locked up than we could find fellow-creatures to guard them. Your mother was right there--as usual. Forgive him as a Christian must; but don't keep twisting back to him in your mind. He's gone for ever; and if I thought, even in your dreams, that you could feel like going back to him, Margery, I should take a very grave view of such a fault."

"No, I wouldn't go back to him--any more than he could come back to me. For why should we think, because we won against him, that we've convinced him he was wrong?"

Mr. Huxam considered.

"We keep this subject from you, because our feeling is that it's very indecent and unbecoming and unworthy of the family to mention it," he answered, "but, since we're on it, through no choice of mine, my child, I must tell you once for all the latest facts. I'll ask you to keep what I'm going to say to yourself, for your mother might blame me to mention it; but men--even madmen--will talk, and you can't always command them to be silent, or refuse to hear what they desire to tell you. And Jacob Bullstone, in the ear of his old friend, William Marydrew, has acknowledged that he was wrong in every particular. He wrote after the trial--a letter which he first sent to your mother and then brought to the shop himself; and your mother saw him with me--for the last time--and refused to read the letter. I won't say I wouldn't have read it; but that's only to admit I haven't got the strength to judge right in a crisis like she has. But there's no doubt that in that letter he said things we might, as Christians, have been glad to hear--for his own soul's sake."

"Mother was right, however," declared Margery, "and whether he ever could endure to see me, or whether he could not, it's very certain I must be myself in that matter. I hope to God he knows he was wrong and is convinced of it, but go back to him--I couldn't now; but--oh, I'm weak as well as strong. Jacob wasn't all, father. A husband isn't a home. I loved such a lot of little things. Being denied pleasure away, I made my first and dearest pleasure there, and I did so care for plants and trees and childish things. And the river and the hills--to me all such like meant a lot. The garden was work and play both. If smoothed the harsh edges. I made it and I made my children altogether. And the river and the hills meant love--for I loved them; and they helped me to love Jacob when I felt I never should again; because they brought back the old Jacob I fell in love with. All this sounds silly to you; but twenty years is a long time--the cream of my life--the greatest part of it for a woman, when she's reigning in her home and bringing her children into the world. Red House means more than I can say--everything--good and bad alike. To me it's like the shop to you--life. You know where to put your hand on everything. You could serve blindfold. And, if I went back to-day, I could shut my eyes and go to the flowers in the garden and know which were out and which were dead and which were in bud. And--but--no, no, no! It all means nothing now. I couldn't go back--never--never."

He soothed her, but felt considerable alarm himself before these confidences. For if Margery entertained such thoughts now--removed from her wrongs by only a few months--how might she regard the situation in a year, or two years? That she should even assert that she could not go back, argued most unexpected weakness in Mr. Huxam's opinion, for when a woman was at the trouble to say she would not do a thing, that generally signified the action was by no means ruled out for her.

The stupendous thought of an ultimate condonation made him giddy--not before the spectacle of a forgiving Margery, but at the vision of Mrs. Huxam and the Everlasting.

He alluded to the latter.

"The Lord thy God is a jealous God--remember that, my child, when any shadow of regret for the past steals into your mind. It's time you braced yourself, Margery. I think you might begin working here in the new garden."

But she shook her head.

"Not yet," she said. "I'm not strong enough in mind or body yet. Flowers would hurt too much, father. I'm going to love your new house, and I'm going to live in it along with you; but flowers won't die. There's some flowers never can die for me, though they withered away a good few years ago. I shall always see them and smell them and hear the honey bees humming in 'em. But there are some I'll never touch no more."

She was worn out after this conversation and Barlow hesitated long upon the propriety of discussing the matter with Judith; but he postponed any warning in that quarter. Margery had some return of her nervous weakness and was very silent for many days; while both parents exercised patience and Mrs. Huxam began to consider the desirability of definite steps. For her daughter's health and the doctor's anxiety pointed to the need of distraction and change.

Judith busied herself to learn Margery's view, but could win no expression or desire from her respecting her future. Then she went to Plymouth to consult her brother, Lawrence. It occurred to her that his niece might perhaps make her permanent abode with the old man and find a sphere of usefulness in ministering to him.

Thus it fell out that, for once, Margery did win opportunity for a long conversation with a child; and it happened to be the one child who regarded no ground as forbidden, and rejoiced at the chance to say things with which her young heart was full.

Auna came and brought a large can full of the famous goats' milk; nor had her grandfather the heart to prevent her from carrying it to her mother, though his conscience reproached him afterwards.

To Margery came Auna and brightened at the unexpected freedom, while her mother drank at the child's command and shut her eyes that the familiar flavour of the milk might bring a thousand pictures to her mind. The visions began happily. Then they ended in darkness--on a February day, when seeking the goats, she had met with her husband hidden on the hill. For thus it was with all her memories; they were prone to break off in a sorrow. Every train of thought ran into grief--and stopped there; and she told herself that this must be surely so, since life itself had now run into grief and stopped. She knew well enough, at the bottom of her heart, that she could never begin again and start a new existence. Some women might have been strong enough to do so. Pride might have driven many to build up a new fabric; some, out of natural energy, physical strength and fulness of life, might have survived; but she could not. Nothing that waited for her would be of a zest to make like worth living; and yet she spoke the truth when she told her father that she would not return to Red House. That she firmly believed; nor could she conceive of any circumstance to change the determination.

Auna struck a new note on the occasion of this visit and she was very frank and clear about it.

"There's always a terrible lot in me I can't say afore grandmother," she declared; "and I don't know whether it's right, or whether it's wicked, mother; but I'm never going to stop loving father and I won't pretend different. Nobody knows how wicked he's been better than poor father does, and his sins properly choke him when he's along with me sometimes. And----"

"Don't you talk about father, Auna. That's forbid and you know it. We've all forgiven each other and you'll understand better some day."

"But he doesn't understand you've forgiven him. Nobody's told him you have. But I shall, now you've said it. And I'm just going to be fifteen year old and I do understand. Father thought you'd done something wicked and that was wicked of him, because he ought to have known very well you couldn't do nothing wicked. But he thought you had so cruel certain, that it all had to be tried by a judge. And then father found out he'd thought wrong; and now his hair be turning grey about it and he can't lift up his head from looking at the ground. And if he knew how to show more sorrow than he does show, he would--I know he would."

"Leave him, Auna. But be sure to tell him I've forgiven him. And say I'm going to drink the milk. And now talk about something different. I bid you, Auna."

"Very well, then, dear mother," said the girl. "Peter be going to the veterinary surgeon to Exeter for six months soon now, to learn all about the sicknesses that come over dogs; and then father says he'll know everything there is to the dogs, and more than he does himself. Though that Peter never will. And Avis--Robert's terrible set on marrying her, and he's coming to ax father if he may do so this very night. But that's a secret hidden from father. And father----"

The child could not keep her father off her tongue.

"Tell me about the dogs and the river and the garden," said Margery.

Auna collected her thoughts.

"The dogs are very well indeed and a lot of new puppies, and 'The Lord of Red House' be the father of them; and Peter says their paws promise them to be grand dogs. And Mr. Middleweek, the new man since Mr. Gill went, is very different from him. He never whines and never says the work's killing him, nor cusses the goats, nor anything like that. And Peter says he's very clever with the dogs, but won't come to no good in the next world, because he haven't found God. But Peter says that what Mr. Middleweek does about the next world is his own business, and he won't quarrel with him as long as he does so clever what he's got to do in this world."

"Peter's a lot with the dogs now?" asked Margery, and her daughter answered that he was.

"And the river's lovelier than ever this year," she ran on--"especially the little island we call 'Mother's Island,' where Avis found that white bluebell. And it came up again this year. And your own garden, mother, is a proper show of flowers. And the roots you planted in the fall have come up, all but one or two. And the red peony seemed to know you wasn't going to be there and he haven't took the trouble to flower at all this year."

She ran on and Margery listened, saying very little but smiling once or twice.

She asked a few questions about trifles that interested her and Auna answered or promised to learn the answers.

Then they joined Mr. Huxam in his parlour behind the shop and took tea together. Auna discussed Jeremy and Jane. She was very interested in their two infant boys and much cast down because the second proved to be delicate.

Margery remembered a book or two and Auna promised to bring them, but Barlow forbade it.

"Not at present," he said. "That would be to create a doubtful precedent. We'd better wait for anything like that, unless the book was yours before you married."

Her grandfather was acutely conscious of the difficulties attending the situation of Auna. Margery's other children continued to be entirely identified with her, and Judith felt satisfied that soon enough they would have broken with the evil influence that begot them; but Auna had developed a decision that remained to be dealt with. She came and went, and not seldom mentioned her father from force of habit, only to be corrected for so doing. Her grandmother already perceived a problem here, but trusted herself to solve it.

When Mr. Huxam had gone and they were alone again, the girl returned to her father.

"I know I mustn't name him to grandfather and grandmother, but just once more you'll let me, mother. Say just once."

"What's the use, child? You must learn to understand that father's gone out of my life. He hasn't gone out of yours. He's part of yours, and I'm glad you love him, because there's only you to do that now. But grandmother's quite right to ask you not to mention father any more here."

"Why?" asked Auna. "Father doesn't tell me not to talk about you. He loves me to do it."

"Anyway you'll do what you're told to do here, I know."

"Very well then--this is the last--last time I'll name him. And if he ever slips out again, it will be an accident, mother. But--the last time, mind--but, don't you think just once--just once, for a little moment, you could see him? You've got such a lot of time on your hands now and you might take a walk and just----"

"Did he ask you to ask me, Auna?"

"Not exactly asked me. He said it would be a great blessing and a sign he was forgiven if you could let him speak to you but once. And I said so it would; and I told him that first time I got a chance, behind grandmother's back, I'd ask you. And oh, mother, why not?"

"For countless reasons, Auna. You'll tell him I've forgiven him. We've long passed the forgiving stage here. Everybody has forgiven father. And what more is there?"

"There's father."

"I mustn't do it. I don't want to do it, Auna. You can't understand yet, but you will when you're older. He will understand."

"You don't want to see father?"

"No, no, no--I don't want to see him again. I've suffered enough."

Auna was very quiet for some time.

"You wouldn't like to come and see your lovely garden, if father promised to go up to Huntingdon for the day?" she asked. "Surely, mother, you'd like to see the dogs and your garden?"

"It's not my garden any more. I've got no garden. I've got nothing but you and Avis and the boys."

Auna tried again.

"How sorry must he feel, before you can forgive him enough to see him?" she asked.

"I have forgiven him. I wish I could make your little mind grasp it, Auna. I know father better than you do. I know how sorry he is; but sorrow can't undo what's done. Nothing could be gained if I saw father, and a great deal must be lost. There are others to think of. We are all in God's Hands. Now you ought to be trotting home."

"God's Hands are cold comfort if you won't see father," murmured the child. "I don't much like what I hear about God from Mr. Middleweek."

Margery reproved her.

"If you want to hear about God, go to your grandmother," she said, "and never listen to anybody else. You ought to know that well enough, Auna."

"I shall always listen to father whenever he talks to me," answered the girl. "And I've told father that I well know God's forgiven him."

She left soon afterwards, very quietly and much depressed, while Margery speculated on the situation and became aware that, against the forces of right and justice and religion, destined to stand between her husband and herself for the remainder of their lives, there would be opposed a girl's will. She saw a time when her daughter would be called to choose; and she was glad that Auna would most certainly fling in her lot with Jacob. She still believed, with her mother, that souls were involved, and, therefore, felt it guilty to be glad.

And Bullstone, knowing that the child might to-day get free speech with Margery, had not slept for two nights until the result of Auna's effort reached him. He had not directed her to do this, but he could not forbid it. The inspiration was hers and he believed that it came from something greater than Auna. He walked to meet her and his heart beat hard as her slight figure came swinging along through the lane beyond Shipley Farm.

She kissed him and he waited for her to speak as they walked homeward together; but she did not speak for a little while. Then she told the best thing she had to tell.

"Mother's going to drink the milk, father."

"Tell me," he answered. "Don't hold it back. Can she see me?"

"No, father."

"Does she want to see me?"

Auna hesitated, then spoke.

"No, father."

Then they walked together quite silently until something happened to distract their thoughts. A quick step overtook them beside the river and Robert Elvin, his day's work done, saluted them.

"Thought I might get over for a bite of supper, Mr. Bullstone, because I was very wishful to have a word or two."

"And welcome, Bob. How's things?"

"All right--all very right I believe. I'd like for you to see the mangolds. The rain have fetched them up proper and the guano be doing wonders. So it is at Bullstone John Henry tells me."

That night after the evening meal, Bob approached his future father-in-law on the great theme and begged to marry Avis within the year.

Robert was a little independent--so his listener thought.

"My mother sees nothing against it and Avis is willing," he said, "so I hope it may happen by your leave, Mr. Bullstone."

Jacob, morbid now in the presence of other people, detected, or imagined that he detected, a changed note in all who accosted him. And often he did do so, for a great weight of censure had rolled in upon him since his error and many derived a sense of personal right doing and right thinking when they said the obvious things concerning him. But the significance of what he had done did not oppress the younger generation since they had no experience of life to weigh its implications. Robert was too busy about his own affairs to trouble concerning the misfortunes of other folk. He had no intention to be anything but respectful.

"If Avis is agreeable, as you say, then so it shall be, Bob," promised Jacob. Indeed the idea had already dwelt in his mind for other reasons than the happiness of young Elvin. In the ceaseless examination of all paths, in the pursuit of every faint thread which might lead to the heart of his hopes, Bullstone had not neglected the matter of his daughter's marriage. For there, if only for a moment in time, he might possibly hope to meet on common ground with the mother of Avis. He told himself that humanity would pardon a natural and seemly meeting on the occasion of a child's marriage. None could protest at that; and while he knew, and smarted to know, that many held his desire--to receive back his wronged wife--as only another offence; while, indeed, brutally faced in certain, unexpected quarters with harsh censure, when he had confided, as he thought, in sympathetic ears; and while consequently driven to lock his hopes out of sight, since they were held shameless, yet in the matter of Avis, he did see an opportunity against which it would be hard to take exception. The girl must marry from her father's home; was it too much to hope that her mother would see a way to come under his roof on the occasion, if only for an hour? By night the possibility seemed to take substance; by day, when his mind was clearer, it faded; and to-night, though he spoke amiably to Robert and promised the wedding should take place after the harvest, he felt less sanguine than usual. He had expected this interview and desired it; he had fancied it would cheer him and bring some hope, but now that it had come, the light was quenched in anticipation by what he had just heard from Auna.

Yet he struck a cheerful note, and it was not Jacob but Avis who viewed the matter differently, and brought him back to the fact that the past was not to be missed even in this matter. Robert called her when he heard that they might wed, and she came into the kitchen, where her father sat, and thanked him. Jacob declared his good pleasure.

"And we'll do it in style I promise you," he said with ill-feigned ardour. "You shall have a good send-off, and a good honeymoon, too, before you start life in double harness."

"And after our marriage, you're going to settle Owley on me, aren't you, father?" asked Avis. "I don't ask for inquisitiveness, but only so as we shall know how we stand."

"Yes, I am. That was a promise. And I'll add this: that I shall waive the rent as soon as ever I see my way clear."

"Not from the start, however?" asked Bob.

"Not from the start--no. Circumstances have called upon me for a good deal of money lately and--however, the future's yours. Whatever else they haven't got, the young have always the future."

Avis looked uncomfortable, feeling that the present was the time to speak concerning details. She was sorry for herself and suffered a disappointment which to one of her nature did not lack for edge. She had dreamed of a very fine wedding indeed, but had been told by her grandmother that any such hope would have to be abandoned. The fact she now declared, and her regret lent unconscious tartness to her speech.

"I can't have a gay wedding, father, and no doubt you know why. You wouldn't have a gay wedding with a death in the house, and what's happened is a long way worse than that."

She repeated a speech that she had heard from her grandmother on the same subject, and Jacob stared, but did not answer.

"That's the worst of a thing like what you've done, father. It don't stop where it belongs, and my wedding's got to suffer with everything else."

Her father flushed, but he restrained himself and she stung on.

"You was always such a man for peace, and now you'll soon have it--that's something."

Then Robert spoke. The ill-temper of Avis was a surprise to him.

"Have done," he said. "I don't want to hear you lecture your father."

He spoke rather sternly and Jacob answered him.

"Better stand up for her, not me, Bob. You'll soon know which side your bread's buttered with my fine Avis. The wedding shall be as she pleases."

Then he left them and they went out into the twilight together, Avis a little alarmed.

She was soon forgiven, for she elaborated her grievance and explained to Robert how the disaster that had overtaken Red House, wrecked not only her mother's life, but cast its shadow over her own. She pretended more than she felt and he consoled her as best he might, for he was much in love and shared her regrets at the passing misfortune, but broke away from it to their own surer future.

"There's a screw loose in such a lot of married people," he said. "Don't think I haven't seen it. It was under my eyes while my father was fighting death. Thank God you and me are different. We know each other's natures down to the quick, and nothing could ever rise up against love like ours."

Elsewhere Jacob mused over his recent experience.

"She's grown up," he reflected. "No doubt a moment in time comes like that, when a man's child, that he still held to be a child, flings off childhood and stands out before him full-fledged man, or woman. And for certain the shock, when it falls, is oftener painful than not."

He considered how this apotheosis of his elder daughter might have hurt him once, though little likely to surprise him. But now it lacked all power to hurt and left him indifferent. She was gone in spirit long ago; and John Henry was gone; and Peter thought more of George Middleweek's opinions than of his. Yet how trivial were these losses and dismemberments now. For life, like the sleight of sun and shadow on hills and valleys, had cast down and lifted up, had transformed the shifting scenery of his existence, so that things before invisible stared out upon him and the old landmarks and comfortable places, the nook and dingle, the blue hill and music-making waters, were obliterated and blotted from the theatre in which he moved. Light glared pitiless where shadows had mercifully spread; gloom threw a pall over what had seemed most stable, most gracious and assured. Did the dogs look at him with the old adoration in their eyes? Was it possible that the miasma he trailed could miss their sensitive nostrils? He often hungered for Huntingdon and the white, squab house under the sycamores; but he put the thought from him as a weakness. Not there homed reality; not there could he perform his penance, or justify the undying hope that still burned up and, with its flickering promise, faintly revived the old images and fought the new darkness that hung heavy upon them.