Chapter VI: The Witch Doctor

Jacob's illness followed a straightforward and satisfactory course. It offered no marked features and awoke interest rather for its cause, than itself, or the sufferer. A week after he was known to be on the way to recovery, his wife went to see her brother. Jeremy had, after the accident, kept his mouth shut and taken no steps to advance her husband's hopes, but to-day Margery herself spoke such words as none had yet heard from her.

Bullstone's disastrous adventure did not lack for dramatic telling in Auna's version. For once she demanded to speak of her father, and she quickened her description with many tears. Nor could the event fail to deepen Margery's own emotions. She was not built to maintain an obdurate attitude to any experience, and whatever her present angle of vision, after speech with her mother, her spirit quickened and her flesh yearned. There seemed only one place for her at this time; and that was at her husband's bedside; there offered only one seemly channel of duty: to be nursing him. Life was short. She hungered terribly for an understanding and sympathetic spirit to help her at this crisis, and found that, after all, despite the tragedy of his long outrage and cruel assault, her husband was still nearest, and still quickest to reach the depths of her. Then thought, advancing upon this conviction, painted a new and another Jacob. She was aware that the whole world set sternly against him and, misreading the attempted murder, suspected that, perhaps, even Adam Winter might not have forgiven him. Surely it must have been some fiery word from Adam that prompted Samuel to his attempt. Yet there she hesitated and, on second thoughts, remembered Adam better. Doubtless he had pardoned long ago; but mad Samuel none the less echoed the people, and she knew, from what her father had told her, that the country side was more interested in Jacob's disaster than regretful of it. Their sole regret went out for the brother and the aunt of the man responsible.

Now, despondent and bewildered, Margery found some comfort in talking openly to her brother and his wife.

She took tea with them on a Sunday and was unguarded and indifferent as to what they might say, or think, of her opinion. They perceived the change in her and set it down to Jacob's situation; but though that had largely served to stimulate Margery and offer a point for argument with her parents, it did not account for the radical and growing operations of her soul. The inevitable had happened, and with all its sorrows and trials, she yet wanted back her life as it was, sanctified to her by custom. She yearned for the home that she had made and her spirit could rise to no other. She was changed, weakened a little mentally, as well as much physically, by her experiences, more frightened of life and less desirous to face it. Now she longed only for quiet--to be secluded and hidden away, forgotten and left alone. She did not dread solitude, silence, peace any more. She desired them before all things and wearied inexpressibly of the noise of the street, the bustle of business and the din of activity round about her. Among the many facts learned with increasing certainty, was the assurance that she would soon sicken and die, cooped here under the eyes of her parents--an object of pity for her father, of triumph for Judith.

These convictions she voiced to Jane, and whimsically lamented that situation which all just persons supposed she was most thankful to have escaped for ever.

"Time blots out the bad and leaves the good still to remind you," she said. "You may not believe it, but it is so. I always remember the happy things and slip the unhappy. It's not only things that happen, but people that made them happen. Get far enough away from people, and you find the parts in them you hate grow dimmer and the parts you like grow brighter. That's why the natural feeling is to speak kindly of the dead. We generally feel kindly to them. At least I do."

"It's true," declared Jane. "When anybody's dead, part of 'em always rises up again on people's tongues, and we don't speak well of them who are dead only because they are dead and can't defend themselves, but because time, as you say, Margery, keeps the good and lets the bad go. I can say it to you and Jeremy, though I wouldn't to anybody else. Take your own mother. I always feel ever so much kinder to her when I escape from hearing her, or seeing her for a week or so."

"You oughtn't to say that, Jane," declared her husband. "It's a very doubtful speech."

"Not it," she answered. "No use pretending. You don't see your mother like the rest of the world, because she don't see you like the rest of the world. And Margery's right. If she don't know, who should?"

"Ask yourself, Jane. You're married and have got plenty of sense to see things. Suppose Jeremy and you was parted for some great, terrible deed done by him: a bee in Jeremy's bonnet, for which he was sorry enough. And suppose, with time, you hadn't only forgiven him, as a Christian, but really and truly, as a wife and a woman. And suppose everything--everything that had made your life, and that you'd made of your life, was taken away, and you were left stranded. What would it be to you?"

"Hell," said Jane frankly. "There's no other word for it."

"And what would you do, Jeremy, if that had happened to you?" continued his sister. "Would you feel that, for her soul's sake, Jane must never come back to you?"

"I'm glad to say no such thing could happen to me, and it's idle worrying to think what you'd do if a thing happened that can't happen," answered the man. "And now you're here, it will be good for you to get away from your own vexations for a bit and lend a hand with mine. And first I may tell you that I've seen your husband that was."

"Seen him? Oh, Jeremy!"

"Keep it dark. I didn't seek him. He cornered me and would talk. Don't think I yielded about it. Not at all. I was firm as a rock with him, because, of course, mother's dead right in that matter; but there it is. Jacob Bullstone was very wishful indeed to get into touch with you, and seemed to think he had a right. But I hit out from the shoulder fearlessly, and he heard my honest opinion of him and so on. However, I'm a man of the world notwithstanding, and nobody knows how difficult the world is better than I do. So up to a certain point and, well within my conscience, I may do as I'm done by in the matter."

Margery regarded him with parted lips.

"He wants to see me?"

"I was the last to have speech with him before he was smashed, and there's no doubt he had a near squeak of his life. I remember Amelia Winter telling me years ago, when I was a huckster, that in the case of Samuel Winter, as a young child, it was a great question whether he'd turn out amazingly clever, or weak in his head. Unfortunately he proved one of the Lord's own, and now, since this business, Adam feels it a difficult question whether Sammy didn't ought to be put away. Why I tell you this is because I'm coming to the point, and that is our mother's fine rule of life that nothing happens by chance."

"Go on," said Margery.

"Well, granted nothing happens by chance, then we've got the satisfaction of knowing we are doing Heaven's will from morning till night. Therefore, if you help me in a vital matter and I help you in a vital matter, we're both doing Heaven's will; and whatever came of it, mother would be the first to confess it was so."

"Lord, Jeremy!" cried Jane. "D'you mean to say----"

"I mustn't come into it," explained Jeremy. "I don't say I'll lift a hand; but I do say that, if it was established that Jane and I go to the post-office when the old people retire, I should feel a great deal clearer in my mind and kinder to the world at large. It is high time I had a bit of light on that subject, and I'm a good deal puzzled the light hasn't shone. I've been hoping a long time to hear we was to go in, and so I feel that you might find good and useful work ready to your hand in that matter, Margery. And--and one good turn deserves another. That's well within a clear conscience."

"A 'good' turn--yes," declared Jane doubtfully.

"It would be a good turn if I decide to help Margery, because we must all do as the Lord intends, and therefore it couldn't be a bad one," explained the casuist. "In a word, if Margery impressed upon mother that the right and proper thing was to trust the business and the post-office to us, that might determine the point. As a matter of fact I'm uneasy. Father's been into Plymouth more than once of late and, of course, they're looking ahead. They always do."

"They are," answered Margery, "and I'll tell you something. Mother wants you and Jane to take over the business--under father. And father, seeing you've never stuck to nothing in your life, feels very doubtful if you're the man. They differ."

"Just as I thought," murmured Jeremy, "and some people might be vexed with their fathers; but that's only to waste time. So there it is. You're all powerful with father--eh, Margery?--and surely to God you know Jane and me well enough to know mother is right."

Margery perceived the nature of the bargain. She believed with Jeremy that their father was to be won. Indeed he sometimes came near yielding to Judith's steadfast conviction. She might very possibly settle the point in her brother's favour; but what could he do for her? Nothing with her parents. The problems that had looked vague and, indeed, had never been considered in her mind before, now rose and began to take a definite shape, Until now nothing but a dim, undefined desire for something that must not be--for something her parents held unthinkable--had stolen through her mind and settled over it, like a sad fog. She had accepted the situation and supposed that the craving for some return to vanished conditions was at best weakness, at worst evil. Yet now she had moved beyond that point to an acute nostalgia. Jacob's tribulation was augmented by the startling news that he desired to see her. She found comfort in Jeremy's sophistries, but knew, even while he uttered them in his mother's words, that they echoed anything but his mother's spirit. Jeremy was a humbug, as charming people are so apt to be; but the fact still remained: nothing happened but what Providence planned.

She began to think of details and they made her giddy. To move from secret wishes to open words was enough for one day. She had never dared to be so explicit, and her confession in the ear of sympathetic Jane comforted her. But her constitutional timidity, developed much of late, now drew her in.

What could Jeremy do? Deeds were not in Jeremy's line. Time must pass. Jacob must get well again--then, perhaps--she would see how she felt then. He might change his mind. Possibly he only wanted to mention some trifle. Margery doubted whether her present emotions were healthy or dangerous; then she fell back on her brother's affairs.

"You've given me something to think about; and I will think of it," she said.

"And Jeremy shall think of what you've told us," promised Jane, "for I'll remind him to do so."

"The thing is the greatest good to the greatest number," declared Jeremy. "That's always been my rule and always will be. And clearly the greatest good to me and my wife and children lies at the post-office. Others see it beside us. As for your greatest good, Margery--that's a very difficult question."

"I know it. I hope I haven't said too much; but you'll forgive me if I have. I feel--I feel, somehow, that I ought to see my husband, if he still wishes it."

"You would," answered Jane, "and so would any nice woman feel the same."

"That's the point," argued Jeremy. "You may be right, or you may be wrong. But the general opinion is that you show what a fine creature you are by keeping away from him. Why don't you put it to mother?"

"Put it to a man," advised Jane. "Ax parson. It's a free country and though we're all Chosen Fews, that don't prevent parson from being a very sensible chap. Or, if you don't like the thought of him, try somebody else."

But Margery gave no promise. She went home vaguely heartened and determined at least to work for Jeremy. She felt, indeed, that what he desired would be sure to happen presently without any word from her; still to work for him was good. She had nobody to work for now.

Next morning she went to chapel with Mrs. Huxam and, finding herself brave afterwards, actually followed Jeremy's suggestion and gave Judith a shock of unexpected pain.

"Mother," she said. "I've got great thoughts and you should hear them. We can't think anything we're not meant to think, and now my thoughts have taken a turn. You know how it was with me. After our trouble I didn't want to live; I'd have been glad to shut my eyes and sleep and never wake up. Then I got better and braver. And then I grew to miss the life of my home terribly, because, whatever the cause, to be wrenched out of the little holding of your days must hurt. And so I got worse again--body and mind. And now I've looked on and asked myself about it."

"Better you looked still farther on and put away all that joins you to the past. That I've told you more than once, Margery."

"You have; but I can't do it. You can't forget your whole married life and your motherhood and the father of your children. If you do, there's nothing left for a woman. And I've come to see this very clearly. I'm Jacob's wife."

"No longer in the Lord's sight."

"Let me speak. I'm Jacob's wife; and what I'm sure now is that Jacob is a very different man from what he was. God Almighty has changed Jacob, and the poison that did these dreadful things is poured out, and he's left, like the man from whom the devil was drawn by Jesus Christ. Mother, when first I even thought about Red House, I felt shame and dursn't tell you, for I feared the longing to see it again came from the devil. Now I don't feel shame, and I know the longing don't come from the devil. There's duty to be done there yet."

"Thank God you've told me this," answered Judith, "for we've got to do some fierce fighting, I fear. Not the devil? Why, I see his claws, Margery!

"'Tis his last and deadliest stroke, to make his temptation look like duty and come before you clothed like an angel of light. An old trick that's snapped many a soul. Never, never do you hide your thoughts from me, Margery, after this."

"But wait. Suppose, by forgiving in act as well as heart, I went back presently. Then I might save Jacob himself."

"Oh, the cunning of the Enemy--the craft--the sleepless cleverness! No, you can't save Jacob Bullstone; but you can lose yourself. There's always the chance of losing yourself while breath is in your body, and Lucifer knows it, and he'll often win at the last gasp on a man's deathbed. He's proud, remember, and his pride leads him to try the difficult things. Can't you see? How is it so few can see the net he weaves, while the lotion of the Gospel's at everybody's hand to wash their eyes clear if they would? He's vain as a peacock and likes to do the difficult things and catch the souls in sight of Heaven's gates. I know; I read him; not many women have conned over his ways like I have. And now he's saying 'Jacob Bullstone is mine--a gift from his youth up--and there's no cleverness in keeping your own; but the woman he's cast down is not mine.' And your soul would be worth the winning. And what's cleverer than to make you think you can save your doomed husband's soul when, to try, would be to lose your own? You'd best to pray on your knees about this and call loudly on your Saviour. I'm a lot put about to hear of such dreadful thoughts. They've crept in through the chinks in the armour of salvation, Margery, and you must look to it this instant moment."

"There's a human side, mother. The man has been called to face death. He lies there in hospital and----"

"And where did he fling you to lie? Where was hospital for the ills you have suffered and the death you have died? There is a human side, and to return good for evil is our duty; but there's a higher duty than that. Don't argue. I know all about the human side; but humanity was never yet called upon to risk its immortality and hope of salvation. I'll hear no more touching this at all, Margery. I'm suffering for you a good bit. I've failed to make the truth clear seemingly."

"No, no, you haven't failed. I know how you view it."

"Set your trust where only trust can be set," said Mrs. Huxam, "and trust your God, like a little child, to show you, in His good time, how your future life's got to go. And first He wills for you to get up your health of mind and body. Your mind before everything. Your body's nought; but your mind's sick--far, far sicker than I thought--and we must see to it. There's fighting to be done and we'll fight. I thought all that was over; but the devil smells a sick soul, like a cat smells fish, and I might have known there was danger lurking."

They returned home, to find that somebody had called upon Margery's mother. Old William Marydrew awaited them in his Sunday black.

Margery he welcomed kindly, though she responded in doubt; but Mrs. Huxam, who knew the ancient man for her son-in-law's friend, showed open suspicion and seemed little inclined to grant the speech he begged.

"I've no quarrel with you," she said, "and I very well remember your godly daughter, for Mercy Marydrew had the light; but----"

"The better the day the better the deed," ventured Billy. "Don't stand against me till you've heard me. I don't come from Mr. Bullstone. I'm here on my own--for a friendly tell--and I hope you'll respect my age and give ear to what I'd like to say."

Mr. Huxam, who had been talking to William until his wife's return, supported the proposition.

"Hear him, Judy," he said. "Nobody's ever heard nothing from William that he shouldn't hear, but on the contrary, much that was well worth hearing. Wisdom like his, when it's mellow and not turned sour, as wisdom will with some old folk, be all to the good. We'll go into the kitchen and see after dinner and leave you to it."

He departed with Margery, and Mrs. Huxam took off her black thread gloves and blew her nose.

"Speak then," she said, "and take the easy-chair. I'm not one to deny respect and attention to any religious-minded man; but I warn you that there are some things don't admit of dragging up. You understand."

William plunged at once into the great matter of his visit.

"Single-handed I come," he said, "and I wish I was cleverer and better skilled to bend speech to my purpose; but you must allow for that. In a word, there's a general feeling in a good few minds that Jacob Bullstone is indecent and blameworthy to want his wife to go back to him; while, against that, in a good few other, well-meaning minds--women as well as men--there's a feeling it might be a very decent thing to happen, and wouldn't hasten the end of the world anyway. And I, for one, incline to think the same."

"The end of the world's not our business," said Judith, "but the souls of ourselves and our children and grand-children are our business. You strike in on ground where I've just been treading, and I'm very sorry to hear you can say what you have said. Whether it's indecent and blameworthy for Jacob Bullstone to want his wife don't matter at all. What those doomed to eternal death want, or don't want, is nought. But we've got to think of the living, and we've got to save the souls that are still open to be saved."

"Certainly; and who, under God, has the right to damn woman, or child, or man, or mouse, my dear? I saw Bullstone in hospital yesterday, and seeing and hearing him, it came over me like a flame of fire to have a word with you, because well I know you are the turning point--the angel of life, or death I might say--to these two. Everything depends upon you seemingly--or so he reckons. You hold their future lives in your hand. That's a lot to say, but not too much. And I should much like to hear your point of view on this high subject. Bullstone, I must tell you, have suffered a very great deal, and his eyes are opened to his lunatic act. He was just as mad every bit as Sammy Winter, who set the bull on him to mangle him. Just as mad, my dear; but with a far worse sort of madness; and yet a madness that can be cured, which Sammy's can't in this world. And afore the God we both obey, I tell you that Jacob is cured. His sufferings have been all you could wish, and his broken thigh, and so on, was nothing in comparison. He's gone through tortures that make his broken bones no worse than a cut finger; and I want you to understand that he's long ways different from what he was, Mrs. Huxam, and an object for good Christian forgiveness all round. And now you tell me what you think about it?"

Judith looked, almost with pity, at the ancient prattler. It seemed to her that such people as Mr. Marydrew could hardly have more souls to save, or lose, than a bird on a bough. They were apparently innocent and went through the world, like unconscious creatures, doing neither harm nor good. But Billy suddenly appeared in harmful guise. It was as though an amiable, domestic animal had showed its teeth, threatened attack and became a danger.

"You're touching subjects a thought too deep for your intellects, Mr. Marydrew, if you'll excuse me for saying so," she began.

"Don't say that. I venture to think----"

"You think, but I know. I know that no man or woman can interfere between Jacob Bullstone and his Maker, or undo what's done. For once even the doubtful sense of the world at large sees it. A child could see it. My daughter has come to the gate of salvation by a bitter road, like many do. She's faced great sufferings and escaped awful perils; but she's through the gate; it's fast home behind her, and she ain't going to open it again to her death--be sure of that. He dares to want to see her, and you say he's changed. But, after you've done some things, it's too late to change. He's lost. Why? Because, like a lot of this generation, he's listened to false teachers and thought the Powers of Evil were growing weak. To hear some people, you'd think the devil was no more than a scarecrow set up to frighten the world into the paths of goodness."

"True," admitted Billy. "It was so with me. Looking back I can plainly see, as a lad, the fear of Old Nick had a lot more to do with my keeping straight than love of God. God was above my highest imaginings. I only knew He was wishful to get me into Heaven some day, if I gave Him half a chance. But the devil seemed much nearer and much more of a live person. Somehow you find that bad folk always are nearer and more alive than good ones--don't you?"

"Because we all know bad people and have every chance to see them misbehaving," said Mrs. Huxam, "but good people are rare, and always will be."

"I wouldn't say that. I'm so hopeful that I rather share the growing opinion against hell. I believe the next generation will knock the bottom out of hell, my dear, because they'll find something better. There's a lot of things far better than in my youth, and new love be better than ancient fear. Grant that and you can't say Jacob's down and out. He's a very penitent man, and he's turned to God most steadfast of late, and it would be a great triumph for the mercy of God, his Maker, if he came through, and a great sign of the Almighty's power in human hearts."

She regarded Billy with mild interest, but hardly concealed her contempt.

"And you in sight of your grave and your judgment, and so wrong in opinions," she said. "'A sign?' Yes. This generation seeks after a sign no doubt; and that's an impious thing to do at any time. And I dare say the day is not very far off when it will get the sign it deserves. D'you know what you're doing, you perilous old man? You're trying to hold back the mills of God--you, that know so little of the truth, that you can say the bottom's going to be knocked out of hell! I didn't ought to listen, I reckon, for from your own mouth you've told me you are with the fallen ones, and I never thought the father of Mercy Marydrew had missed salvation. But 'tis a very true thing that most of us are judged out of our mouths. No devil! Poor soul! Poor, lost soul! But, such is the will of God, that I see clearer and clearer how only them that have escaped Satan know him for what he is. The world lies in his keeping, and the people don't know no more what has caught them than the fish in a net. But I know. I see his ways and his awful art. I see him as he is--black--black--and you can smell the smeech of him when some people are talking. And not the swearers and lewd ones only, but many, as think, like you, they are doing God's work. That's the last and awfulest trick of him, William Marydrew--to make his work look like God's."

Billy was amused and distracted from the object of his visit.

"My!" he said. "Blessed if I thought there was anybody in Brent knew such a lot about Old Nick as you do, Mrs. Huxam. A proper witch doctor you be! But even the saved make mistakes. 'Tis on the cards you may be wrong, and I hope you are. You'm terrible high-minded, but them that want to be high-minded must be single-minded, and the clever ones often come to grief. You know a lot too much about the Black Man, and I'd like to hear who told you. But be that as it may, there's a very fine thing called mercy--come now."

"There is," said Mrs. Huxam, "or the bolt would fall a lot oftener than it does. Mercy belongs to God, else heaven would be empty when the Trump sounds; but there's also such a thing as justice, and justice is man's business. He can leave mercy where it belongs and not dare to think of such a thing when a sinner falls. For that's to know better than Him that made the sinner. Justice is what we understand, because our Maker willed that we should. Our first parents had their taste of justice, and justice is within our reach. To talk of showing mercy to the wicked as you do, is to say a vain thing and range yourself against justice. Only through justice can come hope for any of us, William Marydrew. Our business is to do justly and not pander with evil, or try to touch the thing with merciful hands."

"And that's what life have taught you," murmured Billy. "And you thrive and keep pretty well on it. I've always heard you was a wonder, my dear, but how wonderful I never did guess. Now tell me, is Adam Winter, who be of the Chosen Few, in the right to forgive the man that did him so much harm, or in the wrong?"

They talked for an hour, then, weary and conscious that Mrs. Huxam was not made of material familiar to him, William rose and went his way.

"No offence given where none is taken, I hope. I'm sorry you can't see it might be a vitty thing for husband and wife to come together in fulness of time; because if you can't see it, it won't happen perhaps. But turn over the thought, like the good woman you are, and if the Lord should say that mercy ain't beyond human power, after all--well, listen."

"You needn't tell me to listen, Mr. Marydrew. I'm sorry for your blindness and I'm sorry for your deafness, but I see clear and I hear clear still."

"Good day then. No doubt it takes all sorts to make a world."

"Yes," answered she, "but only one sort to make a heaven."

He laughed genially.

"Then I hope they won't knock the bottom out of hell, after all, else where should us of the common staple go? Must spend eternity somewhere."

"Scratch a sinner and the devil always peeps out," thought Mrs. Huxam as William departed.