Chapter IX: Exodus

Jacob Bullstone suffered a mental relapse before the time of his departure and his friends were sore put to it. They restrained his violence with difficulty. He took no thought for himself, endured much physical hardship and wearied his body. The preliminary journeys to Huntingdon were endless and he tramped, or rode, backward and forward needlessly. Sometimes Auna accompanied him, but oftener he went up alone, on each occasion carrying small boxes, or parcels. Only two persons hoped and believed that Bullstone was right in following his impulse. Billy Marydrew held to this opinion and Jacob's younger daughter agreed with him. Auna faced the ordeal of the coming isolation without fear. In his darkest moments her father did not frighten her and she had by long and close application learned how best to calm his spirit and minister to unspoken needs.

William called at Shipley Farm three days before his friend left Red House, that he might see Adam Winter. For Winter was helping with Bullstone's move. He had lent a cart and would drive it, by a circuitous route that a cart might make from the valley to the heights.

"He's growing childish in my opinion," said the farmer. "His rages are much like a boy's; and yet out of them will flash deeper sense than ever he spoke when he was a happy man. I've known the zanies to say very true things. I've heard my own brother do it. Those beyond comfort themselves can often speak a comfortable word for other people."

"A luckless wretch," commented Amelia. "I wouldn't say but he'll do something red before he's finished. He rolls his eyes--a cruel, bad sign--and George Middleweek says there are days when only Auna dare go near him."

"He's wading through deep waters," admitted Winter, "and we people not called to endure such torment must be patient and prayerful for him."

"He cussed God yesterday," said Amelia, "and George Middleweek heard him do so."

"Think nothing of it," urged Mr. Marydrew. "King David and many another noticeable man have done the same and yet been saved alive."

"The Almighty's wrath properly eats up the ungodly," declared Amelia. "And a very solemn and teaching sight it is for us."

"His patience be greater than His wrath, else not a man or woman could escape," answered William.

"He knows the end from the beginning, and stuff meant for the undying fires won't go nowhere else, patience or no patience," asserted Amelia stoutly; while Mr. Marydrew laughed.

"Why, my dear, you'll be so bad as the old witch doctor herself! What the mischief do you know about the Everlasting's bonfires? Or what goes into 'em, or what don't? No doubt 'tis such fierce opinions be making Adam here escape to the Church of England."

"He'll come back," she replied, looking at her nephew. "He'll soon have enough of that."

"Wisdom needn't be at odds with charity," said Adam. "The Son of Man came to seek and to save that which was lost."

"Exactly so--not to burn it," declared Billy. "Think how we look upon some poor, distracted animal, Amelia--a cow that's dropped a dead calf, or a robbed bird. Almighty God have put His finger into Jacob's brain for the minute, but it don't follow He won't take it out again. I say the moors will tame him and bring him peace. And mind, Adam, to be very careful carrying his cuckoo clock up over. The clock belonged to his wife and Auna tells me that the sound have a very kindly effect upon him."

"He made a separate journey with the clock himself," answered Winter. "I rode there Sunday, to try and trace out the cart-track. By good chance it's fairly dry going for the time of year. Huntingdon was a proper old rogues' roost when Veale, the warrener, left; but Bullstone have put in a lot of work and got it all whitewashed and water-sweet. He's going to live a labourer's life--everything plain and simple."

"May he soon go out of it and his poor child get back among civilised people," hoped Amelia. "You can't wish anything kinder for that man than death."

"Don't you forget the big, seedy cake for Auna, however," prompted Adam. "I make my first journey for him mostly with stores. He's laying in a lot of tinned stuff, in case they should be snowed up. And I believe he'd like for that to happen."

The great day came at last and the weather proved unpropitious. A heavy fog descended upon the moors and Middleweek, Peter and Adam Winter all advised Jacob to postpone departure. But he would not. Everything was ready and he determined to go.

"I could make the way blindfolded," he said, "and I'll walk in front, and you can come with the carts behind."

They set forth accordingly and Jacob, who took leave of his home without emotion, led the way. One old dog accompanied him and Auna had begged for more dogs later on.

The procession was soon gulfed in the mist, and long before the party reached Huntingdon, every member of it had become wet through. But Bullstone exhibited an amazing good temper. None present had seen him so cheerful for many days. He made no mistake about the way and when at last the white face of the cottage stared suddenly out of the fog and the naked limbs of the sycamore tree loomed above it, Winter was amazed.

"How you done it I can't say," he assured Jacob; "know the moor as I do, I was lost utterly before we'd gone half a mile."

They lighted a fire and dried themselves, while Peter boiled tea and Auna, at her father's direction, went to her own chamber to change her clothes. Bullstone's first act was to wind up his cuckoo clock. Then they made a meal and ate heartily while the weather grew worse. The fog banks rolled off to the lower ground and heavy rain began to fall. They worked with a will, that Peter, George and Winter might return before night fell. Such furniture as Bullstone had selected for his new home was dragged into the house, where Auna dried it. They made no attempt to order things, but just fetched in the contents of the carts and stacked all in the passage and little chambers.

From above came hammering, for Middleweek insisted on putting up the two bedsteads they had brought. They toiled mightily while the rain beat down and the foul day sank to its close. At four o'clock all was done and the carts started to get homeward in the last of the light.

The partings were brief; indeed Jacob did not say "good-bye" at Huntingdon, for he insisted on returning With them to a certain spot. Once there, a track might be picked up that would bring them to their road. He cared not for the weather, preserved his contented demeanour and expressed very hearty gratitude to Adam, to Middleweek and to his son for their good offices.

He was excited and thanked them all again and again.

"I'll make it up to you," he said. "It's done me a power of good to see what man will do for his fellow-man at a pinch. Don't think I'll forget such fine service. My turn will come to repay."

As they parted he indicated his intentions. It was clear that he proposed no temporary absence from his neighbours.

"Come the spring we shall meet again, no doubt," he said. "I don't want anybody up over for a couple of months or more. And if there are letters for me, show them to George, Peter, and answer them between you as you think fit. I'll open no more myself."

"Us'll get news of you afore that I hope," answered Winter. "You mustn't cut yourself off from your fellow-creatures altogether, Jacob."

"Why should I be up here then, Adam? What have I done this thing for? I've called on the hills to cover me, and they will do their part if I do mine. Good-bye, all; and if there's a God, may He deal gently with you, my son, and you my friends. Keep edging to the right till you make the big rock and the old quarry--then the way's plain."

"And mind you get out of them clothes the first minute you're back," shouted Adam.

"Fear not; I'm outside the power of weather to hurt," he cried. "I've given weather its chance, but the hand of the elements is held from me."

He was gone and the carts, each with a man at the horse's head, splashed onward.

Peter walked beside Adam Winter. A rare flash of emotion had touched the lad, and the events of the day had broken him.

"'Tis a pretty bloody thing to have a father like that and no mother," he said.

"So it is then; but don't be sorry for yourself; be sorry for him, and hopeful for him. He's got a good sensible family, and it's up to you and John Henry to go ahead and make him proud of you. And very like it will be your work to get him back again in time to come."

"Avis thinks that perhaps, when he knows he's got a grandchild, he'll get a bit more nature into him."

"Very like he will. Billy always swears he'll weather it, and he's looked deeper into your father than we can."

At Huntingdon, Auna was exceedingly glad when her father left her alone for a little while. She had been fighting her tears and would have conquered had he remained--at any rate until she had gone to bed and out of his sight; but when he left with the carts, she broke down and wept. She could not have told why, for she had long grown accustomed to her future and in some moods even welcomed it; but the dour day served to impress upon her youth a side of the time to come that made her weak for the moment. She quailed and abandoned herself to tears; yet not for long. Love dried her eyes, and hope that her father would presently win to peace soon made her brave again. She set about preparing a meal and first brought down a complete change of underclothes and socks and a pair of slippers for him. These she put by the fire, but noticed with some concern that the kitchen chimney smoked and flung puffs from the peat into the room. The wind increased and the night darkened in storm. She began to pull the furniture to its places and lifted an enlarged photograph of her mother on to the parlour mantelpiece. Jacob would like to see that when he came in. She heard him presently moving a crate in the yard and saw him dimly through the gloom carrying it to the cart-shed. Then she called him.

"Do come in and change your things, father," she cried from the window.

"Right!" he answered. "I'm just going to give the pony a bite of hay and see he's settling down."

He soon appeared dripping wet and smiling, with his red dog turned to a russet-brown. The creature was downcast. It shook itself, scattered moisture, whimpered and crept to the fire. Auna, now cheerful, took a towel and wiped the dog. Then she left the towel for her father, who had already stripped off his coat and jacket, and bade him get into his warm clothes quickly.

He called her back in twenty minutes and she found that he had obeyed her. He was rummaging in a box of stores for the spirit bottle.

"Four fingers I must drink," he said. "The wet has got into the bones of my neck seemingly."

He swallowed a stiff glass of brandy, and then Auna lighted a lamp and prepared their meal.

"We've come up into a proper gale," said Jacob, "and the harder it blows, the calmer do I find myself, Auna. It'll tire itself out by morning and well have a fine day for putting the things in place."

After the meal he pottered about and cleared the passage, while she brought blankets and sheets from boxes, aired them and busied herself bed-making. She found her father drinking more brandy. He had been in the parlour and he had returned there presently, set a candle on the mantelpiece and stood looking at Margery's photograph. She left him there and turned to settling the crockery on the dresser. Then, an hour later, she returned, to find him still standing motionless in the parlour. The wind shouted and some tar-pitched slates on the roof were chattering as though the house shivered.

Jacob at her call woke from his reverie and came to the fire. He had grown very silent. She pulled up his big arm-chair, and he sat down in it and spread his hands to the red peat.

"Like a death-rattle up over," he said. "We must put those slates right, Margery."

He called her by her mother's name sometimes.

"The house is fine and water-proof," she declared. "There's not a drop got in anywhere."

When the cuckoo cried nine, she made supper with cold meat and bread and jam and more tea.

But Jacob did not want to eat.

"We'll turn in," he said. "We've had a hard day. I hope they got back all right. Do you feel pretty peart?"

"Never better, father. I've hotted a brick for your bed, because you're a thought shivery by the look of it."

"Nought," he said. "Only weariness."

"Your leg don't hurt you?"

"Only terrible tired. Can I do anything more for you to-night?"

"No--you get to bed and I'll soon go too."

The old red terrier slept with Jacob, and his basket was pulled out from a pile of odds and ends and taken up to the bedroom. He crept up after his master--a melancholy dog, strange to his surroundings.

"Poor 'Jacko' will soon settle down," said Auna. "Don't forget to put him a drop of water in the soap-dish, father."

Jacob kissed Auna and went up the little stone stairs to his chamber. He was very stiff.

"Look in upon me the last thing," he said, "and bring me up another drop of drink. Make it hot, there's a dear."

He was suffering from slight rigours when she brought him the liquor but Auna did not observe them.