Canadian Organizational Behaviour

11th Edition Steven Lattimore Mcshane

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 She flung herself on the ground and wept; her anger expired. She was
only bitterly conscious of dishonour and degradation. Not built to suffer
very deeply, or very long, suffering, when it did come, broke like a
hurricane over Margery and beat her down before its onset. But she had a
spirit to spring up again, a spirit avid for such hope and happiness as might
be within reach. It was a spirit as innocent as a child's, and her pleasures
were such that any child might have shared them with her.

Jacob Bullstone slowly expressed contrition. He imagined that he

believed her; and the conviction plunged through his soul, sweeping bare
the rocks and channels. It was real and did a temporary, cathartic work; but
while it cleansed the stuff he was made of, it could not alter the stuff. By an
effort of will be abased himself. He knelt down beside her and prayed for
forgiveness. He poured scorn upon himself and talked until, knowing that
much speech was foreign to him, Margery began to be fearful of this
phenomenon and her tears dried. She bade him cease at last; but he
persisted and showed himself a new man in her eyes—a strange man, whom
she presently began to pity. She knew that Jacob would never be the same
to her again; but she did not know whether he would stand ultimately
higher, or lower, as a result of what had happened between them. She was
weary and unspeakably sorrowful, for her heart could not be hard and her
natural sympathies were large. He seemed to roll back time and even speak
with the voice of the lover from the far past. He pleaded for absolute
forgiveness; he was very humble and he promised on his oath to change
from that hour.

"God helping," he said, "this is a day that shall see us nearer and dearer
to each other than ever we have been. And I ask you to forgive, because I
want you to do that before you see what I shall do, Margery, and not
afterwards. Bear with me if you can a bit longer yet; trust the future till I
show you what I'll make of it."

She was glad enough to accept all that he said and to express regret for
her own words.

"Let us forget for mercy's sake. Let us forget every syllable and go on
with our lives," she said.
 "Forget never," he answered; "but go on with our lives we will. Watch
me."

She had it on her lips to add:

"And for Christ's sake, don't watch me;" but she did not endanger the
harmony now attained. She remembered how they had walked in this place
as lovers, and she put her hand in his. Thus they went back silently together.

CHAPTER XI

THE OFFER OF OWLEY

A position was defined and an understanding attained between husband

and wife, while the unconscious party to their difficulties knew nothing.
Thus Adam Winter, in absolute ignorance of the fact, stood upon the brink
of events for which he was not responsible—his life being, as all lives,
much at the mercy of his fellow-creatures.

Margery's pride kept her tongue still, for she would have endured
anything rather than confess the truth. The truth not only stultified Jacob,
but it would cast an unjust doubt upon herself if revealed to any other. She
knew that many husbands had cause for jealousy and she guessed that, if
she warned Winter of Jacob's weakness, he might, while certainly taking no
blame upon himself, judge that no smoke existed without fire and imagine
that, in some quarter, she had given Bullstone a real cause for his emotion.
She valued the farmer's good opinion too highly to risk implanting any such
suspicion in his mind. She saw no reason why she should not be fair to
herself, and indeed little temptation to speak to anybody longer existed. She
had accepted Jacob's apology and the promise of contrition, and since the
latter presently took an active form, there rose in her a genuine thankfulness
that the long-drawn horror was dispelled. She leapt to welcome the relief.
She grew happier and the sensation of increasing resentment, that she
should be called to endure his distrust—the sense of living under perpetual
insult which she had indicated to him in her anger—died completely.

Jacob himself made a supreme effort and performed actions that

presented great difficulties to him. He ruminated for days in solitude and
then took two steps, the one trivial, yet rich with satisfaction for Margery;
the other momentous. He hesitated long concerning the latter; but
opportunity for the first quickly offered and he took it.

To the amazement of his family Bullstone announced a day of

pleasuring, and it was not such a day as he sometimes planned—no picnic
into the wastes of the Moor, or other excursion, which meant little delight
for anybody but himself and Auna. He proposed to take them all to Totnes
Races—a jollity beyond their utmost expectations. The youngsters were
openly incredulous, only Margery understood and appreciated his sacrifice.
The day passed without a cloud and, when night came, his wife thanked
Jacob in words that repaid him well.

"I'm not going to pretend to myself that you enjoyed it," she said; "and I
know, with your nature, you couldn't, my dear. The trains were enough,
without anything else. And yet I wouldn't have had you away, and I
wouldn't have gone without you. But you've given a mint of pleasure to us
all; and the children are grateful, and I'm more than grateful."

"Let be," he said. "It was a well spent day and I'm none the worse for it,
if those I care most for are the better."

But greater things were in his mind and, when the news came that
Joseph Elvin was near his end, Bullstone took action. He hesitated long, for
he looked ahead and told himself that the cost of failure would stir banked
fires and waken evil fears he was fighting to destroy for ever.

He designed a great proposition and everything depended upon another.

Immense good must result if the other could meet him, and a stroke
precious for his peace be accomplished; but should his suggestion be
opposed and declined, then more than passing disappointment would be the
result. He reached a point where a serious hitch delayed decision. The man
he proposed to approach was Adam Winter, and now, labouring over every
detail of the coming conversation, he tried to look at it from Adam's point
of view. Immediately his mind was up in arms. Everything hinged on
motive, and the great problem centred in Winter's attitude and Winter's
secret opinions of what inspired the offer about to be made to him.
Bullstone was almost minded to abandon his project after viewing it from
this standpoint. For, though to any other man, his motive must be obvious
enough and grounded in Jacob's own advantage, to this particular man it
was possible it might appear in another light. For Jacob knew very little of
Winter and he could not dismiss the weight of past prejudice. It seemed
impossible that there had never been anything whatever on the other side,
and that his own accumulated tortures and tribulations were all self-
inflicted. Adam surely must have some shadowy inkling that he was not a
favourite of Bullstone's, and his conscience must indicate the reason. Jacob
had reached a point of self-deception from which it was impossible that he
could regard Winter as absolutely innocent in thought. And that being so,
might not the master of Shipley suspect something lay hidden under the
problem to be presented and the offer to be made? Might he not, in truth,
guess at the vital reason for Bullstone's approach?

For some weeks Jacob delayed and wearied himself with this problem.
Had he submitted it to Margery, she had instantly solved it: that he knew;
and he knew how she would solve it. She would assure him that the last
shadows still haunting his mind were unworthy of him and might well be
dismissed. She would declare his suspicion absurd and reiterate her
assurance that he was putting into the mind of Adam imaginary ideas which
had never entered it. But along that road was danger and he had no desire to
reveal thoughts that would check Margery's present happiness or suggest
that he was going back on his word. She believed him purged. Then a new
fear crowded down upon him. For Margery must presently hear of his offer
to Adam, and how would she take it? If Winter might read into it an inner
motive, how much more certainly would she do so.

Again he hung fire; and then Joseph Elvin died and the need arose for
decision. In the event of failure, he had already determined what he would
do. Indeed the alternative entirely satisfied him, and so far as Owley Farm
was concerned, he had very little real difficulty. All interested in the matter
believed that he was going to allow Robert Elvin to succeed his father. If,
therefore, Adam Winter declined his offer of Owley, which was the great
step he designed to take—it would be handed to Robert, in whom Jacob felt
complete trust. Now one decision solved the problem of Margery, if she and
Adam were honest. Bullstone decided that none but Winter himself must
know of the offer. Thus, if he declined it, nobody need be any the wiser, and
things might take the course generally anticipated. From this point another
move struck upon Jacob's mind, calculated still further to ensure secrecy so
far as everybody but Adam was concerned. This came out when the men
met on the evening of Joe Elvin's funeral.

Winter, his aunt and many other neighbours, including the Huxams,
Jeremy and his wife, and the party from Red House, saw the dead man
lowered into his grave; and by appointment on the same night, Jacob visited
Shipley Farm to speak with Winter. He had determined to offer him Owley
and make the way smooth; but he had also determined that the world must
suppose the suggestion, if accepted, had come from Adam and not himself.
He had everything at his finger ends, and had so ordered the matter that not
Margery knew whither he was bound, when he left Red House after supper.

Jacob felt confident that his proposals ought to be accepted, for Owley
was a far stronger and larger farm than Shipley. Its ground was richer and
cleaner, its flocks had direct access to some of the finest grazing on the
moor. Moreover the house was bigger and better conditioned, while it stood
nearer to Brent and the railway than Mr. Winter's present habitation.

The men sat together and Jacob wasted no time. The vital points he
anticipated.

"As for rent," he said, after detailing his suggestions, "I should will that
to be the same as you pay here—no more and no less. There are two
conditions only: that you take on Bob Elvin, if he would like you to do so;
and that you let it be understood that this suggestion came from you, not
me. That may sound like craft in your ears; but the point is this: young
Elvin hoped that I would trust him to carry on, and failing you, I should do
so. I would, however, naturally prefer a grown and experienced man; and if
you come to me and offer to go there, nobody could question my wisdom in
putting you before the lad. That's all there is to it; and if you like to go over
next spring, I should be glad."

Nothing but frank gratitude greeted Bullstone's offer. Adam, as the rest
of the world, knew him for a man who did good things in abrupt and secret
ways, and he regarded the suggestion, that he should improve his state by
taking Owley, as one prompted by nothing but the good-will of the man
who made it. That he should have put any other interpretation upon it was
impossible. A kindly man himself, only prevented by circumstances from
generosity, none could have been quicker to weigh the significance of such
a handsome proposal; and when he replied, after half a minute's silence, he
dwelt first on what he conceived the spirit behind Jacob's speech.

"A mighty good offer and I value it," said Winter. "I'm over and above
pleased, because it shows your large heart, which didn't want showing, I'm
sure, and also your opinion of me. We much like to be rated high by those
we rate high ourselves; and you wouldn't have said such a thing if you
hadn't felt Owley was safe with me. I'm proud of that."

"So much goes without saying, Winter. I know you'll do all that can be
done and look after it well enough. Here at Shipley, it's making bricks
without straw half your time—a thankless grind. You'd have an easier and
fruitfuller job there."

"I know all that. I was too set on showing my pleasure to go into the
thing for the minute, and if I had only myself to think on, I'd take you. But
there's my aunt and brother."

"Well, they'd be a lot more comfortable than at Shipley."

"Just the opposite. You know how people fit into a place. My old
woman could no more shift now than a snail out of its shell; and if Sammy
thought he'd got to leave Shipley, he'd have the house out of windows and
make a proper tantara. Such a thing would throw him over altogether, I
reckon. It was a terrible business getting him here; but he was near twenty
year younger then."
 Jacob regarded him in astonishment. The objections appeared too slight
to be sincere.

"Surely Samuel would soon get used to the thought," he said.

"Not him," answered Adam. "His mind—so to call it—hates change

worse than anything; the leastest trifle altered makes him sulky and wicked
for a month. There's a dangerous side to him none knows but me. I assure
you I'm telling truth. I'd go, and mighty glad to do so; but while Samuel
lives, we can't leave here."

He was so definite that argument did not suggest itself to Bullstone. His
mind was soon burrowing in its accustomed channels; and, grasping the fact
that his offer had been declined, he fell into gloom. He was full of suspicion
at once. The reason for refusal had come so pat that it seemed as though
Adam were prepared with it. Yet he submitted a most frivolous objection.
Jacob had indirectly assured Winter large increase of prosperity; and was it
likely that any practical man would decline such improved conditions on
the plea of discomfort for a weak-minded brother?

Bullstone began to grow fresh doubts. It was clear that Adam had no
mind to go beyond the immediate radius of Red House. Meantime Winter
spoke and reiterated his gratification.

"I shall always remember it," he said, "and I'd like to brag about it, if I
didn't know you'd deny me. Besides you say it mustn't be known."

"To nobody," answered Jacob. "If you've turned down the offer once for
all, I can only say I'm sorry and a bit surprised—especially at the reason
you give. Your aunt wouldn't have made much fuss if she knew you were a
gainer, and your poor brother could have been managed, as you well know
how to manage him. However, you say 'no,' so Bob Elvin shall have it. But
not a word about this to anybody—to anybody whatever. I'll ask you to
promise that, please."

"Of course. My word's given."

"Not to any of my people either."

 "I quite understand, Bullstone. And may the chance offer for me to do
you a good turn. I'd be glad to get it and take it."

"As for that, you've had your chance to-night, and won't take it,"
answered the other, rising. He refused a drink and went his way. The night
was dark and he dawdled in thought on Shipley Bridge for a few moments
with the din of the river in his ear and one white streak of the fall, like a
ghost, flickering up and down in the blackness of the rocks beneath. He was
disappointed. A thousand doubts and dismays arose from this reverse. He
worked himself into a turmoil before he reached home, and his native
weakness, resolutely opposed of late, broke from restraint and moved along
the old, tormenting ways. One fact dominated the situation. Winter would
not go farther off, despite the immense advantages of so doing. It followed
that to remain in reality represented for him still greater privileges.

Jacob sank deeper and began to imagine maddening incidents as a result

of this refusal. He saw Winter secretly relating this story to Margery.
Perhaps she would laugh at it. Thus his own defeated plan liberated the old,
insensate terrors and freed a force that threatened to destroy the
fortifications he had lifted with such toil. The citadel was undefended again.
Yet, after the first assault, he came in a measure back to his newer self and
strove to convince his mind that Adam Winter had told the truth. He tried
desperately hard to make himself believe it, and partially succeeded.

Life at this season demanded much attention. Special work of

preparation for a big dog show was in hand and John Henry would soon
leave his home for Bullstone Farm. Margery mourned the pending loss.

"The house won't be the same without him," she said. But the boy
comforted her. He was full of energy and hungry to begin serious work,
where some day he would reign as master.

"Don't you fret," he begged his mother. "I shall visit you of a Sunday,
and I've promised grandmother to go in to chapel very regular, so we shall
meet there, if not here."

They knew they would see but little of him at Red House, however, and
that moved Margery to sorrow. It was the first empty place, the first nestling
away. His sisters also regretted the coming change; but Peter, who had
always been overshadowed by John Henry, felt no great concern. As for
Jacob, he was indifferent. He knew that his son did not esteem him, for the
lad's character in no way resembled his own. He was a bustling, pushing
youth, steadfast and of fixed opinions—a Pulleyblank, as Mrs. Huxam
delighted to point out.

Thus stress of circumstances for a time intruded; then, with more

leisure, Jacob's spirit lost ground. Events aroused disquiet; paltry incidents
were magnified into ominous evils. He sank to setting little traps for his
wife, but she never fell into them. She did not even see them; but he
suspected that she had seen them, and waited for her to protest and express
indignation. Had she done so, he was prepared. The fact that she took no
notice was set down to cunning on her part, and it wrought fresh evil within
him. Thus secrecy and ignorance did their work and Margery, entirely
absorbed with the preparations for her son's departure, existed unaware that
her husband had returned to the darkness of his illusions. In truth she was
thinking very little about him at this period. John Henry filled her thoughts.

CHAPTER XII

ON THE HILL

For the first time Peter Bullstone went to the great annual Cruft's
International Dog Show with Barton Gill. Jacob exhibited every year, but
very seldom accompanied his dogs to London; and now his son was
allowed the grand experience of "Cruft's."

"You'll soon be old enough to do this work on your own," promised the
boy's father, and Peter set forth, with Mr. Gill to take care, not only of him,
but the six Irish terriers entered to uphold the fame of Red House.
 John Henry was gone to Bullstone Farm, and home to Margery seemed
very empty without him; but she often saw him and he came, at his father's
direction, to Sunday dinner when he could do so.

Then happened an incident steeped in deep emotion for husband and

wife. It was a quality of Jacob's failure to reason that his life, down to its
most trifling incidents, suffered contamination. As existence, even to the
least details, will wake the breath of creative imagination in an artist, so,
where a passion has obtained complete mastery, no minute event of life but
is unconsciously passed through the test of that noble, or vitiated, outlook
on all things. The smallest action challenges the paramount emotion and is
illuminated by that gracious, or evil, light.

Thus, when Jacob Bullstone, upon a February day, saw Adam Winter
strolling up the river valley with his gun on his shoulder, the sight set fire to
thought as usual; and it did more. An appetite, stilled of late under press of
normal life, had quickened after its rest. An ugly idea instantly moved in
Bullstone's brain and he resisted it; then it returned and he attended to it.
His mind worked, until presently he told himself that the inspiration,
suddenly flashed to him, was good rather than evil. It sprang adult and
powerful. It did not grow. He had plunged into it almost before he knew it
was upon him, and he had taken the first step before considering the last.
He was swept away; and in five minutes the base thing had been done, for
yielding to sudden, overpowering impulse, he acted. He returned from the
kennels, told Margery that Adam Winter had gone up the valley to shoot
snipe, and then, after a pause, declared his intention of visiting a friend at
Brent.

"I'm free for the minute and have been owing him a call for a month of
Sundays," he said. "I'll be back sometime; but you needn't expect me till
you see me."

He changed his coat and hat and left the house quickly; then, before
reaching Shipley Bridge, he turned right-handed up the hill, skirted the
copse that crowned it and plunged into the shaggy pelt of the slopes behind
Red House. Hence, himself unseen, he could observe the valley beneath
him and the path that passed along beside the river. He moved fast and had
soon reached his destination and thrown himself into a hollow over which
stood a naked thorn. Here he was invisible, while his eyes commanded the
vale beneath. He could see Winter beyond the river islets and mark his fox-
terrier working through the fallen brake and tangle—a white spot in the
sere. Nothing else moved and he panted from his swift actions and watched
the vale. Then shame rose, like a fog, and chilled the ferment of his mind.
What had he done? Fired by opportunity, driven by awakened, raging lust
of doubt, he had abandoned his rational purpose for the day and set another
trap for Margery. What was he now doing? Having lied to her, he was
spying upon her in cold blood. He revolted against the naked vileness of
such a statement and sought to clothe it in sophistry, that it should be
bearable. He assured himself that he did his wife no wrong, since she was
ignorant of his action and must ever remain so if innocent; while, for
himself, this test, painful though it was, might prove a godsend and reassure
his mind and cleanse his doubts for ever. If she did not come, a weight must
roll off him and peace return; if she did come, he would see her actions and
measure the significance of them. In either case he was justified. And while
he argued thus, he felt the sickness of his soul. He planned to give her half
an hour, then he would go on his way to Brent and do what he had promised
to do. He was too far from the valley in his present watching-place and now
moved down, sulking like a fox through the gullies on the hillside and
keeping out of sight of any possible spectator. He proceeded a hundred
yards, then found a ridge above a badger's holt—a hole between two blocks
of granite that supported each other.

He reflected with his eyes on the valley and each moment heartened
him. He heard Winter's gun—the faint report of two barrels fired quickly
one after the other, but Adam was now out of sight. That he should in
reality be shooting was a good sign. He had evidently not taken the gun as a
blind, with his thoughts elsewhere. Reason strove with Bullstone. Only
twenty minutes remained and then he would be gone. From beneath the
river lifted its murmur in the clear cold air. The low sun had already
withdrawn behind the hills and the valley lay in shadow, while the sky
above it was full of light. Jacob felt the contrast between this purity and
peace and his own spirit. Again and again he dragged out his watch and
wished that time would hasten and liberate him. Before the end he had
grown conscious of great evil within him and suffered despair under his
weakness—the passing despair of a drunkard, or gambler. Then he heard a
rustling and a trampling. His milch goats had wandered up a green lane in
the hill, where grass extended through the banks of the fallen bracken.
There were half a dozen of them and a kid or two.

Seven minutes yet remained to complete the half hour and Bullstone
was already preparing to be gone. Then he saw Margery. She entered the
valley from a gate beyond the kennels and came forward. She wore a red
woollen coat and a white sunbonnet. His eyes grew hot and he felt his heart
beat so fast that a mist blurred the conspicuous vision below. For a few
moments he lost her and rubbed his eyes. She did not reappear and he lay
staring at the empty valley and hoping he had only seen a shadow conjured
out of his own thoughts. Then a slight, brown figure appeared and he saw
Auna running after her mother. She, too, was lost and another moment later
Jacob perceived his wife ascending the hill. She lifted her voice and he
understood that she was only there to call in the goats.

Thus he was thrown from one shock to another: now thankful that she
did not come; now sickened before the sight of her; now again conscious
that his fears were vain.

Auna caught up with her mother and he heard their voices. Then, in the
gust of a great relief, he was confronted with his own position. The goats
were now above him and in a few minutes Margery and his daughter would
be at his elbow. Auna ready ran forward and it was too late to get away
without being seen and recognised. He panted in agony, knowing what this
must mean. Then he remembered that the presence of the child would at
least create a respite. He turned and pretended to be examining the badger's
burrow as Auna approached and saw him.

"Father!" she cried out, and then shouted to her mother. She ran into his
arms, never stopping to wonder what had brought him here, and then
Margery, who much wondered, joined them. She knew her husband's face
exceeding well and with a sinking heart read the truth. Yet before she spoke,
she strove to banish her conviction. A man might change his mind and
many things were strange—even terrible—until one heard the explanation
which banished both mystery and fear out of them. But Jacob was not a
skilled liar and he had no art to invent any plausible excuse. Indeed he
hardly tried, for he knew that his wife would understand. He said something
about the badger, that had killed four hens and bitten their heads off a few
days before, and declared that he had found its home; Auna was well
satisfied and hoped the wicked badger would be punished for his crimes;
while Margery fell in with the explanation, as long as the child was with
them. Indeed she said nothing and, as Auna chattered and they rounded up
the goats and brought them homeward, she asked herself what she should
say. She was in no hurry. She saw clearly what had tempted Jacob to spy,
and she knew that he must perceive the truth was not hidden from her. And
yet she argued that, perhaps, he did not know that she knew. Margery asked
herself which was the better of two courses open: to inquire, as though she
had forgotten his mention of Adam Winter, what had really made her
husband hide on the hill, or to challenge him and reveal that she perceived
he had set a trap for her and fallen into it himself. She was silent through
the candle-light hours of that evening, and still silent when Avis and Auna
had gone to bed and she sat alone with her husband. There came a deep
yearning for confidence, for some wise and sympathetic ear into which she
might pour her tribulation. From pain she passed into anger presently, and
anger determined her future action. She felt the sting of this cruelty and not
guessing how opportunity had wakened Jacob's weakness, or that he had
striven against a power beyond his strength to conquer, a natural
indignation overwhelmed her. The futility and horror of such a life crowded
down upon her soul; and it came with the more intensified forces because of
late she had fancied an increase of frankness and understanding in Jacob.
There had been no cloud for a long time and he had retreated less often into
the obscurity and aloofness of speech and mind that told of hidden troubles.
But this outrageous act destroyed hope and swept away any belief in an
increasing security. All was thrown down and the man's deed revealed to
her that still he could not trust; that he was even capable of telling her a
falsehood in hope to catch her doing something he thought wrong. She
asked herself how often he had already done this? She guessed that the
watcher, whom she had hoped was gone for ever, still spied upon her; that
this was not the first time he had played with her honour thus.

Therefore anger swept her and there came a quick determination to pay
her husband in his own measure heaped up. How often had he imposed a
barrier of silence between them; how often had she not heard his voice
addressed to her for the space of a long day? Now she would be silent; but
her silence was edged with a subtler sharpness than his. He would indeed be
dumb, save before the children. She was not dumb. She, instead, assumed a
cheerful manner and spoke as usual of many things, only leaving the one
thing untouched that she knew was tormenting his mind. She made no
allusion to it and when, alone with her, he braced himself to endure her
reproaches and confess his fault with penitence, the opportunity was not
granted. Then he felt driven to take the first step and abase his spirit before
her; but he could not and, while he turned sleepless in bed beside her, and
she pretended to sleep, their secret thoughts pursued them. He began to
think she was wise to abandon the incident; he praised her in his heart; he
suspected that silence meant an angelic forgiveness. And then he tried to
convince himself that, perhaps, after all, the matter had not deeply
interested Margery; that she had not linked his return with any evil purpose,
or even remembered that he had told her Winter was in the valley. He often
changed his mind, as Margery knew, and though she must have guessed that
the badger was an excuse, yet his real object had possibly not occurred to
her at all. He longed to believe this, but his reason laughed at him. He
returned, therefore, to the conviction that, out of her charity, she had
forgiven his weakness, and he felt it would be wisest to let time pass, that
her wound might heal and no more pitiful fawnings and confessions be
demanded from him.

He thought to wake her and show her that he understood her nobility;
but she appeared to sleep so well that he did not disturb her. And she,
meantime, wondered in whom she might confide. She considered her father,
but believed that he lacked the comprehension to understand; neither could
she go to old Marydrew, who had wit enough, but was Jacob's own nearest
friend. Jeremy was too young. Then she determined to tell her mother.

Her resolution did not weaken with morning, and still Jacob could not
find it in him to speak. The emotional conclusion of the previous night
remained, while the emotion itself was gone. His customary reserve and
love of silence woke with him, and it occurred to him that Margery might,
after all, intend to speak in her own time. Therefore he kept silence. She
only told him, however, that she was going into Brent, with Auna, to see her
mother, who suffered from a cold and kept her bedroom; and after dinner on
that day Margery set out with her younger daughter.
 Bullstone walked to Shipley Bridge with them, then still farther, to the
cottage of Billy Marydrew; and there he took leave of them and entered.

Margery proceeded, wondering curiously if Jacob shared her intense

desire for the opinion of a third person, whether, indeed, he had not already
poured his terrors into some other heart. A woman certainly never had won
his troubles; he hardly knew half a dozen; but it might be that he confided
in William Marydrew. She was silent as they tramped the leafless lanes to
Brent, reached Aish upon the hillside, descended over Lydia Bridge to the
town. Here she and Auna parted; her daughter went straight to the Huxams,
and Margery turned into her brother's shop.

Jeremy stood behind the counter and revealed a gloomy mood. He was
the father of two children now, and the second proved to be delicate.

Unaware of his depression, Margery praised the shop window and the
general air of prosperity which her brother had created.

"It's wonderful how you've got on," she said; "a born shopkeeper, as
mother always told us."

"Yes, that's true enough," he admitted, "but I'm afraid I'm reaching my
tether here. Flesh and blood can only stand a certain amount, and to live
with what you hate is a fearful strain. In fact to spend all my life in an odour
of fruit and vegetables and never escape from it, is beginning to age me a
good bit."

"What does the smell matter, if you're making and saving money?"

"It matters to my nerves," explained Jeremy. "I've reached a pitch of

proper loathing now against the contents of this shop, and nothing but a
sense of duty keeps me here. I've got to go on with it, I suppose, though at a
cost none will ever know; but if people, who are supposed to care about me,
only realised how I hate the very touch of fruit, they might combine and
give a thought to the situation."

"What would you like to sell?" she asked.

 "Nothing you can eat," answered Jeremy. "I'll never handle food again if
I once escape this heavy cross. I'd sooner live my life among coal-scuttles
and dust-bins than with food—especially fruit and vegetables. Never again
in my born days shall I touch a fruit. If I could go into dry goods to-
morrow, there's no doubt I should thank God; so would Jane for my sake.
However, while the business sticks to me, no doubt I shall be expected to
stick to it—sickening though it is."

"A pity you didn't go into mother's haberdashery."

"A very great pity," answered her brother. "When the assistant was
away, you'll remember I did lend mother a hand, while Jane looked after
this show; and the relief—to move among materials and refined things, like
gloves and ties and so on, and everything clean and scentless! However,
life's life; I must bite on the bullet and endure as long as my nature will let
me."

"I'm afraid that won't be long," she answered, "for once you get out of
heart about a thing, it's soon 'good-bye.'"

"I had it in my mind to ask Jacob for some advice," replied Jeremy. "I've
got a very great respect for his judgment as you know, and though I'd not
care to put myself under an obligation to many men, I wouldn't object at all
in his case. He did me one very good turn, and though, as a huckster, I
failed in the long run, if he had some other equally brilliant idea up his
sleeve, it might be just the one thing my nature craves."

Margery threw out not much hope, but promised to speak to Jacob.

"I'm sure he'd help you, or any of us, if he could. His one pleasure in life
is helping people. All the same he won't be able to understand your point of
view this time."

"Not only point of view, but smell and touch," explained Jeremy. "Let
him ask himself what he'd feel if his dogs were swept away and he had to
live with nought but a parcel of cats. Then he'll see what I'm feeling. Tell
him I want to get away from the fruits of the earth, and never wish to see
one of them again; and I'd sacrifice a lot to do so, and so would Jane."
 She left him then and proceeded to her mother's. She felt disturbed that
Jeremy should have failed once more. But she smiled to hear him talk of
'biting on the bullet.'

"I know what that means better than ever he will," thought she.

Then Margery reflected concerning her own purpose, and, having

already determined to speak to her mother, now asked herself what she
should say. When it became a question of spoken words the difficulty
appeared, for she was no longer in the temper to experiment with any words
at all. Her mood had changed from anger to melancholy; she weighed her
proposed speech and doubted whether, after all, Mrs. Huxam had better
hear it. Something suddenly and forcibly told her that her mother would not
be vague or neutral in such a matter. To confess to Judith would certainly
entail following her mother's subsequent directions, and Margery much
doubted what they might be. She was still divided in mind when she joined
Mrs. Huxam.

The elder sat by a fire in her bedroom, with a shawl wrapped round her
head. From its whiteness her face peered, also pale. Her eyes were heavy
and her breathing disordered, but she was wide awake listening to Auna,
who read the Bible and laboured diligently for her grandmother with the
Second Book of Kings.

"'And Jehoash did that which was right in the sight of the Lord all his
days——'" piped Auna; then she broke off and beamed.

"Oh, granny, isn't it a blessing to find somebody who did right before
the Lord—for a change?"

"It is," croaked the old woman. "Few ever did and few ever will."

Auna, liberated from her record of faulty monarchs, left Margery with
Mrs. Huxam and joined a young woman who operated in the post-office
below.

"It's on your chest, I'm afraid," said Judith's daughter.

 "I'm better, however. I shall be down house in a couple of days."

"Take care of the draughts then. February's always your bad month."

"No month is worse than another if you trust the Almighty," answered
Mrs. Huxam. "How's your husband?"

"Jacob's all right."

"No, he isn't all right, and he never will be while he holds off his
Sunday duty. With them who keep live animals, Sunday has got to be broke
in a manner of speaking; but he ought not to let the dogs come between him
and public worship, and well he knows it."

"It isn't the dogs. He hates a crowd," said Margery.

"Then he's all too like to spend eternity in one. Yes, Margery, I wish
very much indeed I could feel more content about Bullstone's future."

In the light of these serious words, Jacob's wife felt little disposed to set
out of her own sorrows. Indeed they were forgotten, since her instinct was
instantly to respond to the challenge.

"He's always doing good things."

"So you may think, and so may he think; but if your Light is uncertain,
what looks good may be in truth be bad. There's a lot done that shallow
minds applaud for virtue, when the truth is the motive is wrong and the
deed worthless, if not evil. And be that as it may, we well know that works
without faith are of no account."

Margery changed the subject, yet introduced another that could not but
redound to her husband's credit.

"The foundations of the house are dug I hear, mother."

"They are. The villa residence will begin to come into a fact as soon as
we can trust the weather. We shall want your help in the garden, for we
don't know anything about flowers."
 "I shall dearly like to help. I long to see you really resting at last."

"I am content to let it be as it will, knowing that what happens is right. I

wonder sometimes what the Lord will find for my hands to do when we
retire; because, though we speak of retiring, that's no word for a Christian
mouth really. The Christian never retires."

"No, you'll never retire from doing good and helping the people to do
good—I'm sure of that. Has Jeremy told you of his troubles?"

"Me first, of course. I'm weighing them. I've laid them before the
Throne. With Jeremy one has to remember that he was made, by his
Creator's wish and will, a little different from everyday men. He's got great
gifts, and though one could wish he'd been a Pulleyblank, even to wish it is
wrong. When he was here for a bit, while Miss Mason went into a nursing
home, Jeremy delighted me. He belongs to the old generation of shop
people and has got the touch—hands like a woman and a great power of
letting a customer think he's having his own way, when in reality he is not."

"He hates the green stuff and fruit."

"He feels that he was intended for higher lines."

"I'm going to ask Jacob about him. Jacob would like to pleasure him
again if he could."

"I hope so, I'm sure, Jeremy being your brother and my son. But I've got
my ideas in that matter. Now you'd best to go home. The dark's coming
down and I've talked enough."

"Would you like some of our goats' milk? It's wonderful rich in cream.
It's often done me good."

"Yes," said Mrs. Huxam. "I should like some of your goats' milk, if you
can spare it."

Margery and Auna set out for home, the child richer by a shilling from
her grandfather.
 "I cheered him up about grandmother," she said, "because if she was
very ill, she wouldn't have been so interested in the Kings of Israel, would
she?"

Her mother speculated with amusement on Mrs. Huxam's view of

Jeremy's character, and thought how Judith must have regarded such a spirit
in another man. She was in a good temper and glad that she had not
grumbled. Her nature was built to bend before the blast and she was always
quick to react to any improvement in her circumstances. She considered,
whether, after all, it might not be better to speak of the recent past to Jacob
himself, and resolved that she would be guided by his future attitude. If he
remained under the cloud, she would endeavour to dispel it; but she trusted
that in a few days he might emerge.

They brought good news, for Auna now produced in triumph a telegram
which Barlow Huxam himself had taken off the wires and entrusted to her,
while Margery was with her mother. The child had not told Margery, but
now produced the treasure for her father.

The Red House terriers had taken two first prizes. Auna begged to be
allowed to keep the telegram and add it to her treasures.

"It will be the greatest of all," she said, "and it's signed 'Peter,' so it must
be true."

CHAPTER XIII

THE ORANGES

Bullstone's monument of madness was nearly completed.

One day he met Adam Winter talking to Margery and Avis, as he

returned from Owley Farm to dinner, and anon, in the kennels, Avis asked