Chapter V: The Autumn Wind

On a rough day of autumn, when the river ran high and leaves already flew upon half a gale of wind, a little crowd of men gathered up the valley beyond Red House, and with crow-bars and picks sought to lift up the block of granite whereon aforetime Margery Bullstone so often sat. Jacob had long ago dug down to the foundation, that he might satisfy himself to its size; and it had proved too great beneath the soil, where twice the bulk of the visible part was bedded. Now, therefore, having heaved it from the ground, they were busy to drive four holes in it, where the cleft must take place. Then they inserted four cartridges, set the slow match, lighted it and retreated beside a cart that already stood out of harm's reach.

There had come Peter and Auna, Adam and Samuel Winter and Jacob Bullstone; and Adam had lent his pig-cart to convey the stone to the churchyard.

They watched silently; then came a flash, a puff of white smoke, whirled instantly away on the wind, and a dull explosion that reverberated from the hill above. The great stone was sundered and they returned to it, bringing the horse and cart with them.

The block had split true and a mass accordant with its memorial purpose was presently started upon the way. Jacob directed great care, and helped to lift the stone, that none of the native moss in its scooped crown should be injured.

"Whether it will live down in the churchyard air I don't know," he said, "but the grave lies in shade most times and we can water it."

Samuel was regarding the boulder with a puzzled face.

"Where be her name going?" he asked.

"The name goes on the side, Sammy," explained Jacob. "Blake, the stone-cutter, was up over a bit ago and took my meaning."

They went slowly away under the rioting wind, and near Red House Peter and his sister left them, while at Shipley Bridge Samuel also returned home.

Jacob walked beside Adam at the horse's head. It was a bad day with him and the passion of the weather had found an echo in his spirit. The rain began to fall and Winter drew a sack from the cart and swung it over his shoulders.

"You'd best to run into Billy Marydrew's till the scat's passed, else you'll get wet," he said.

But the other heeded not the rain.

"A pity it isn't my coffin instead of her stone you've got here," he said. "I'm very wishful to creep beside her. No harm in that--eh?"

"There's every harm in wishing to be dead afore your time, Jacob; but none I reckon in sharing her grave when the day's work is ended."

"Truth's truth and time can't hide truth, whatever else it hides. I killed her, Adam, I killed her as stone-dead as if I'd taken down my gun and shot her."

"No, no, Bullstone, you mustn't say anything like that. You well know it's wrong. In one way we all help to kill our fellow-creatures I reckon; and they help to kill us. 'Tis a mystery of nature. We wear away at each other, like the stone on the sea-shore; we be thrown to grind and drive at each other, not for evil intent, but because we can't help it. We don't know what we're doing, or who we're hurting half our time--no more than frightened sheep jumping on each other's backs, for fear of the dog behind them."

"That's all wind in the trees to me. I wasn't blind: I knew what I was doing. I don't forget how I hurt you neither, and took good years off your life."

"Leave it--leave it and work. Think twice before you give up work and go to Huntingdon."

"My work's done, and badly done. Don't you tell me not to get away to peace if I'm to live."

"Peace, for the likes of us, without learning, only offers through work."

They had reached Marydrew's and Adam made the other go in.

"I'll stop under the lew of the hedge till this storm's over," he said. "Tell Billy I'd like to see him to-night if he can drop in. The wind's turning a thought north and will go down with the sun no doubt."

He went forward, where a deep bank broke the weather, and Jacob entered William's cottage. Mr. Marydrew had seen them from the window and now came to the door.

"A proper tantara 'tis blowing to-day," he said. "My loose slates be chattering, like a woman's tongue, and I'm feared of my life they'll be blowed off. The stone's started then? That's good."

Jacob, according to his habit, pursued his own thoughts and spoke on, as though Adam still stood beside him.

"To talk of peace--to say there's any peace for a red-handed man. Peace is the reward of work and good living and faithful service. Red hands can't earn peace."

"Now don't you begin that noise. Let the wind blow if it must. No call for you to blow. Take my tarpaulin coat for the journey. A thought small, but it will keep your niddick dry."

"Give me a dram," said Jacob, "and listen to me."

Mr. Marydrew brought his spirit from a cupboard while the other rambled on.

"We've just hacked the stone for her grave out of the earth. Torn up by the roots, like she was herself. She dies and her children lose a father as well as a mother, because they know the stroke was mine; and what honest child shall love a father that killed a mother? That's not all. Think of that man now helping me to get the stone to her grave. Think of the suffering poured on Winter's head. A very good, steadfast sort of man--and yet my hand robbed him of much he can never have again. Three out of four children lost, and that saint underground. And all allowed by the good-will of a watchful God."

He nodded, emptied the glass his friend offered him and looked out at the rain.

"You're dark to-day and don't see very clear, my dear," said Billy. "You put this from your own point of view, and so 'tis very ugly I grant; but every thing that haps has two sides. You've bitched up your show here, Jacob, and I'm not going to pretend you have not. You've done and you've suffered a lot, along of your bad judgment; and you was kindiddled into this affair by the powers of darkness. But 'tis the way of God to use men as signposts for their fellow-men. He sees the end of the road from the beginning, and He knows that the next scene of your life, when you meet Margery, will belike be full of joy and gladness."

"It's your heart, not your head, that speaks that trash, William," answered the younger. "Can future joy and gladness undo the past? Can the sunshine bring to life what the lightning killed an hour afore? How shall understanding in Heaven blot out the happenings on earth? Things--awful things--that God's self can't undo? And answer me this: if some live happy in this world and go happy to the next, as well we know some do; then why should not all? If some are born to live with their minds clear, their tempers pure, their passions under control, why should such as I am blot the earth? Would a man make maimed things? Would a decent man bring living creatures to the birth short of legs or eyes, when he could fashion them perfect? Where's the boasted mercy of your God, William? Where's His eternal plan, and what's the sense of talking about a happy eternity if a man comes to it poisoned by time? I'm calm, you see--a reasoning creature and honest with myself. My everlasting inheritance would be nothing but one undying shame and torture at the ruin I have made; and I know that I cannot stand up in the next world among those I have spoiled and wronged and feel a right to do so. And if my Creator has built me to gnaw my heart out in agony through a life without end--what is He? No, the only poor mercy left for me is eternal night--endless sleep is what I'd pray for if I could pray; because another life must be hell wherever it is spent. Let Him that made us unmake us. 'Tis the least and best that He can do for nine men out of ten."

The storm had swept past and a weather gleam flashed upon the rain. The red beech trees before William's home shone fiery through the falling drops and shook off little, flying flakes of flame, as the leaves whirled in the wind.

Mr. Marydrew did not answer, but followed Jacob to the wicket gate and watched him as he rejoined Winter. William waited until the cart had disappeared and was turning to go in, when a neighbour came up the shining road from Shipley.

It was Amelia Winter in her pattens.

"Did Adam tell you he's wishful to see you to-night?" she asked and Billy answered that he had not.

"Well he is," she said, and put down the big umbrella under which she had come. "He's lending a hand with a heathen lump of stone just now. That forgotten man up the valley be going to put it on poor Margery Bullstone's grave; and for my part I'm a good deal surprised that parson will suffer such a thing in a Christian burial ground."

"They've just gone round the corner--Adam and him and the cart. He was in here storming against his fate a minute agone."

"Not Adam? He don't storm against nothing."

"No--t'other. My old friend. He ain't through the wood by a long way yet, Amelia. His thoughts and griefs crowd down on him like a flock of foul birds, and shake the roots of his life something shocking."

"'Tis well if the Lord's Hand is heavy," she answered.

"So it should be, if there's justice in the world."

"Try to think kindly on the man. He's suffered much."

"I live with Adam Winter," she answered and went her way.