Chapter XIII: The Promise

Three men were talking at Shipley Bridge, and one prepared to leave the others and ascend to the Moor. But he was in no great hurry. Adam Winter and old William listened to George Middleweek, who had come from Red House. His talk concerned the Bullstones and he spoke of Peter.

"He's wise for his years, but I laugh to see the real boy moving and feeling behind the parrot cry of what he's been taught to say and feel. A young woman has turned him down at Brent. She loves somebody else and haven't got no use for Peter; and he damns his luck one minute, and the next says that everything that happens must happen. But it's taking him all his time to believe it as well as say it, and, meanwhile, nature will out and a dog or two have had to yelp for Master Peter's troubles. The sorrows of the dog-breeder be often visited on the dog I reckon."

"Life runs over a lot of innocent dogs, no doubt," said William, "and leaves 'em mangled and wondering what they've done to be disembowelled, just as they thought they was being so good and faithful."

"To a man of Peter Bullstone's mind, the thought that a girl could refuse him is very vexatious I expect," admitted Adam. "His mother's family ain't out of the wood yet. My Aunt Amelia tells me that Judith Huxam was catched by Barlow going to the police-station to give herself up for fancied crimes! It looks like they'll have to put her away."

"That's what God brings His Chosen Few to, Adam!"

"No, George. You mustn't say things like that in my hearing, please. All that happens is part of the pattern, and who can judge of the pattern from the little piece under his own eye? Not the wittiest man among us."

"Cant!" answered George. "But if that woman's drove mad--her, who have driven so many others the same way--then that's one to the good for your precious Maker, Adam: a bit of plain justice that us common men can understand."

They spoke of Jacob Bullstone.

"He'll be excited to-day I shouldn't wonder," said George, "because his daughter is going back to him this evening. Peter drives in for her presently."

"Auna wrote me a letter full of woe," William told them. "She's one of they young hearts from which even us frozen old blids can catch heat. What d'you think? Her Great-Uncle Pulleyblank's minded to make her his heir, and she's prayed him to leave his money to her Uncle Jeremy, because he wants it and she don't! But Pulleyblank knows his Jeremy too well I hope."

"And Jacob seems as if he was more in tune too," declared William.

"He's doing kind things to lonely people--such as don't run up against much kindness as a rule," explained Adam. "The lonely have a way to smell out the other lonely ones. He sits very quiet now for hours at a time, perched on a moor-stone so still as a heron."

The master of Shipley got upon his horse, which stood tethered under an oak beside the hedge. Then he rode off to climb the waste lands, while the others went on their way.

Winter had come to dinner with Jacob, and he found him cheerful and exalted before the thought of his child's return.

He explained his hopes and purposes, but with diffidence.

"If men, such as you and Marydrew, still think well of it, I don't say but what I might slip back again to some quiet spot," he said. "I shouldn't feel that I'd got any right, exactly, to thrust in again among folk--such a thing as I've grown to be; but if it was only for William's sake, I'd come. He always held out that I'd be saved for some usefulness, and I'd like to make good his words."

"Come then," urged Winter, "don't go back on it."

"I'm a thought clearer sighted than I have been, Adam, and more patient. How's Samuel? I understand him now so well as you do yourself."

They talked of common interests, but Bullstone grew restless as the sun went westerly, and he did not seek to stay his guest when the farmer rose to return.

"I've got everything in fine fettle for her--for Auna," he explained. "She's coming back from her sea-faring to-day. Peter goes in for her and she'll walk along alone from Shipley, and the boy will be up with her box to-morrow morning. The moor's in a cheerful mind to-night, but I dread to hear her say she likes the sea better."

"No fear of that while you kennel up here. But I hope we shall have you both down before autumn."

"Yes, faith, I shall creep down."

They left Huntingdon together, Jacob walking by Winter's horse for two miles. They parted, then, in the gracious glow of evening, and the elder sat upon a shelf of rock and waited. Far beneath him the sun fires lingered over the pavilions of a larch grove and warmed the young green to gold. The untiring cuckoo called a while, then grew silent as twilight stole delicately over all things and detail died.

He saw Auna at last--slim and swift, ascending on quick feet. And then she had come, put her arms round his neck, kissed him, and looked into his eyes with the warmth of her steadfast worship.

"Is your soul quiet now, dear father?" she asked; and he replied:

"Yes, faith, it's quiet now, my dinky maid."

She sighed with satisfaction.

So they went up together, hand in hand, through the cool curtain of dusk; with fret of light and shadow all vanished for that day. They went up speaking very few words into the deepening bloom of night, while on the sky glimmered the stars again, and in the grass a glow-worm. From his stony place among the fern, churn-owl throbbed a lullaby for the whole, drowsy earth; and he touched their human hearts, old and young, with the mystery of his music--the mystery of all living songs that waken when the rest of the world is going to sleep. The two notes whirred on, rising and falling, fainting and trembling out again.

Then the white face of Huntingdon looked upon them.

"It shan't be your home much longer--I promise that," he whispered; but as yet Auna knew no other love than love of him.

"Where you are is my home, father," she said.

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