Chapter VIII: Jeremy Evasive

After Margery knew her husband's desires, she was animated fitfully to make an effort and return. But she lacked strength to do any such thing single-handed. She had been losing vitality, yet so gradually, that none about her appeared conscious of the fact. Even Auna saw her too often to appreciate it. The girl came every week, but won no further opportunity to see her mother alone. She opposed a sulky obstinacy to her grandmother and Judith began to fear for her.

Then Margery saw her brother again and, with even less reticence than on a former occasion, appealed to him. She had kept her original contract and succeeded in winning her father. It was understood that Jeremy and Jane would take over the post-office and the draper's shop, when the Huxams went to their private house; and Jeremy, now accustomed to the idea, argued that his sister had really not influenced the decision and that she might not, therefore, fairly ask him to assist her present project. In fact he much desired to be off the bargain, and but for Jane, would have evaded it. She showed him, however, that this might not honourably be done and, with very ill grace, Margery's brother listened to her purpose.

"I must go back when he does," explained Jacob's wife. "He's made a good recovery, and can walk on crutches, and will soon be able to travel with a stick. And the next thing will be the wedding, I suppose; and I ought to be at my home for that. Because such a thing will break the ice and help all round--at least so I feel and hope. I must go back, Jeremy. I'm called stronger and stronger to it, and mother's awful ideas don't trouble me no more. I've gone much farther than to forgive Jacob now. He's been very near death and I ask myself what I'd have felt. But all that's my business. What I beg from you, Jeremy, is just practical help--to meet me by night with your trap, unbeknownst to any living thing but ourselves, and drive me back."

"I don't like it--I hate it," he answered. "It's not a religious action and I'm very doubtful indeed if it's a wise one even from a worldly point of view. The excitement will certainly be terrible bad for you, because you're in no state at all to stand it."

"It may be kill or cure; but I'd far rather face it than go on like this--seeing my bones come through my skin and my hair fail me. It'll soon be now or never; but I do think, if I get back quietly and quickly, I'll build up again and be some good to my family. I'm only sorry for mother."

Jeremy exploited the ethical objections.

"You see, Margery, it's quite as difficult for me as for you. As a matter of fact you're putting a great charge on my conscience, because I've got to go contrary to mother and behind her back--a thing I've never yet done--and feeling as I do that she is right----"

"You've promised," interrupted Jane. "You promised to lend Margery a hand if she helped you; and she did help you. And it's humbug to say you never hid anything behind your mother's back, my dear man. What about it when you married me?"

"I'm talking to Margery, not you," he replied, "and I was going to say that somebody else might help her in the details much better than I could. You see some think she's right, and such as them would do this with a much better appetite than I shall. How if I was to drop a hint and get another man to do it, Margery? It would be just the same to you and a good bit pleasanter for me."

"There's nobody but you," she answered, "and it's properly unkind if you're going back on your promise."

"He isn't," declared Jane with diplomacy. "He's a lot too fearless and a lot too good a brother for that."

"I wouldn't say I promised; but of course if you feel I did----" continued Jeremy. "However I've got rather a bright idea, and since you're firm about this, and nobody will thank God better than your husband if you do go back, then why not let him do it? That would be a natural seemly arrangement since you both think alike. I'm perfectly willing to go to him and tell him."

"No," said Margery. "That would upset everything I've planned. My return must be a surprise for a thousand reasons. I want to go back as I came out. In plain words, I've got to escape mother to go at all. Set like steel as she is against any truck with Jacob, I have no choice but to deceive her. I'm too weak to carry it off with a high hand, and she'd stop me if she guessed I was thinking of it. Only I can't, of course, walk to Red House, and so I must be drove; and you must drive me."

"If you're a man, you will, Jeremy," added Jane. "You promised."

"I bargain, then, that my part never comes out," said Jeremy, much perturbed. "I consider this is something of a trap I'm in, and I don't think much the better of you for it, Margery. And I believe you're courting a pack of trouble, not to speak of Everlasting punishment if you go back to such a man. But since you won't let me out, I'll do as you wish on the one understanding, that my name's never whispered."

Neither Margery nor Jane, however, felt any sorrow for Jeremy.

"Thank you, then," said his sister. "It's only a question of waiting now till my husband's well enough to go home. Then you can fix up a night, and I'll husband my strength and come and meet you at Lydia Bridge, or somewhere out of the way. We might do better to go round under Brent Tor."

"We must leave the details for the present," said Jeremy, "and it will be needful to wait till the nights are longer and darker."

Jane changed the subject.

"What about Avis and Bob?" she asked. "Jacob counts on their wedding taking place from Red House--so Mr. Marydrew told me."

"It's going to be a difficult subject," answered Margery; "everything must be difficult till we begin again; and mother won't do anything to make it less difficult."

"Jacob naturally expects his daughter to be married from her home--and why not?" asked Jane.

"Because it isn't her home," explained Jeremy. "You can't talk of Red House being a home no longer, and mother's right there. Red House ceased to be a home when Margery left it."

"But if I was back that would be altered," declared Margery. "It all points to my going back. And mother will live to see it was right, if only for our children's sakes."

Jeremy, however, would not allow this.

"Don't fox yourself to think so. Your children haven't any use for their father and never will have. He's done for himself with them--all but Auna--and when she's old enough to see the sense of it, no doubt she will."

"Jeremy's right," said Jane. "You mustn't think that, Margery. The boys and Avis always did care a lot more for you than their father. They never hit it, and you knew it, if Jacob did not."

"He knew it very well; but it didn't alter his feeling for them. He'll do the right thing by all of them, however they treat him," argued the other.

"You may think so, but John Henry's a great fool for turning his father down as he does all the same," declared her brother. "The man's not made of patience, and as to justice, the less we say about justice the better, when we think of you and look at you now."

"I've told John Henry to see his father; I've told him half a dozen times on the quiet," said Margery. "For his own sake he should."

Elsewhere, by a coincidence, this very thing that they desired was happening, for John Henry had met Jacob's ancient friend and been firmly directed to pay his injured parent a visit. He obeyed, being the more inclined to do so for private ends; and while Bullstone first felt satisfaction at the visit, his pleasure presently waned, since it became apparent that not concern for his father alone had brought John Henry.

He hoped that Jacob was better; but this was not what interested him.

"'Tis a very good thing you weren't killed," he said, "and I expect you'll have the law of that lunatic and win this time. He didn't ought to be at large, for he's cunning and wicked. He may do something like this again and bring it off next time."

"I've gone through all that with Adam Winter, his brother. You needn't trouble on that score. It's all part and parcel of other things, and there's no fear that Samuel would assault anybody but me. I've told his brother that I won't take any step in the matter, or have him put away. He's not the only one who has been revenged against me, John Henry. At any rate he did it openly."

"It's all very wretched and I'm sick of the subject, and I wish it could be dropped," said his son; "and it's a thousand pities that you can't go farther off from Brent, or else mother can't be took away out of it. There's a talk of her going to Uncle Lawrence, and it would be a blessing if she did, for she's growing to a thread-paper and getting as weak as a rabbit. Of course you can't go, I suppose; but she might, and they ought to take her."

"Your mother's thin? So Auna says. It's a great grief to me."

"No business of mine anyway. But you must look after yourself nowadays, for there's nobody else to trouble about you, and I think I've a right to ask a few things, father."

"Certainly. Ask what you please, John Henry."

"Very well then. And first I'm very glad you've made such a good recovery, and I'd have come sooner but for the mountains of work. I hope you won't take it amiss, or think I'm pushing, or anything like that; but, with you, none of us ever know exactly where we're standing, because you do such unexpected things. I've always been a good son, I believe--quite so good a son as Avis is daughter, anyhow; and you've given her Owley, so I feel it's only fair, me being your eldest son, if I ask for Bullstone."

"Owley's my wedding gift to Avis. She's going to be married and going to live at Owley as you know; therefore it was a very good time to let her have it. You're not of age."

"I soon shall be; and the eldest ought to have Bullstone."

"Why in such a hurry? I haven't gone yet. Plenty of time."

"You let Avis have Owley."

"Fight against your mean greed," answered his father. "Even your grandmother won't approve lust for this world's goods. Go on with your work, learn your business and trust me for the future. Remember that I've got to think of others besides you. I've taken over Huntingdon for myself, because a time will come some day, when I'm old, that I may decree to live there--for the air and peace. And then, no doubt, you'll have Bullstone, and Peter will own the business at Red House. But there's Auna too. And I'm not past work yet."

"If you could give me a written, signed promise for Bullstone, I'd know where I stood."

"Give--give--give! And are you never to give? Are my children to receive always and return nothing--no duty, no love, no respect even? Have you ever thought what you owe to those who brought you into the world?"

"I owe no man any thing," answered John Henry without emotion. "And I never will. It's always the fashion, seemingly, for parents to make a fuss about what their children ought to do, and expect them to fall down and worship them. Why should I--just because you married and had a good time with mother? And, seeing what life is, I don't know that anybody need feel under any very great gratitude for being alive. It was all in the day's work that I was born; you didn't choose me, and a child don't owe a parent any thanks whatever for coming into the world. And so far as the rest is concerned, you've done your duty by me, and I've done my duty faithfully by you, and everybody. I've never given any trouble--never got into a scrape--always been straight and hard-working. And I deserve Bullstone and ought to have it."

"What does your mother say?"

"She's understood that the eldest son had it. But I can't talk of her to you, of course."

"Why not?"

"I'm mother's side, and God knows I wouldn't do nothing against her," he answered. "But this has nothing to do with her."

"How so, if all mine is hers?"

"She wouldn't take anything of yours, father, and never will. You talk as if nought had happened. You seem to forget. But you can't expect none of us to forget, while we see her every week. It's been a fearful thing--cruel for your children and everybody. It will never be forgot by mortal man I should think, and you can't expect any of us to be exactly the same again. We're honest and we've got our feelings and we've been through a lot. I'm sure you owe us something. And if you're not going to let me have Bullstone, you ought not to let Peter have the business. I'm your eldest son and----"

"Learn what your mother thinks and come to me again," directed his father. "All I have is hers, and it was always her wish, when first Avis got engaged, that she should take Owley for her portion. If she'd like for you to have Bullstone while I live, it can be. After your mother's self, there's only Auna to think about."

John Henry cheered up and promised to do as he was directed.

"I'm properly certain mother would say I ought to have it," he declared.

"I expect she would, and her word's my law. You'll be of age in less than a year, so things may happen as you would wish. But I don't transfer till the present lease has run out. It wouldn't do for you to own the farm on which you're being taught your business."

"I know my business. I know full as much as Bob Elvin, if not more. I've got larger ideas than him."

"I dare say you have; and now you'd best be gone. And you can see me again when you've heard your mother."

John Henry departed and Jacob considered him. In the past he had much resented similar applications on smaller subjects: the young man never lost anything for the sake of asking; but now this large request left him unmoved. He meant to leave Bullstone to his son, and had no real objection to handing it over in his own lifetime. For the moment this incident offered hopes of a message from his wife. There might chance some thread in John Henry's demands to serve for the business of drawing Margery and himself together again. He was ever on the look-out for such threads.