Bullstone weighed every word of this conversation as he walked home, and he lay awake till the dawn, oppressed—now striving to see nothing in it, now confronted with visions that worked him into a sweat of doubt and dismay. He determined to go to Plymouth. He laid his plans. Then he banished the thought and decided against any such step. Auna had not mentioned Adam Winter in her letters. He rose, lighted a candle, descended and read them again, to be sure. They cast him down immeasurably, because they mentioned that Auna had been on the sea for a long day with her great-uncle; but her mother had not gone. Margery did not like the sea. She had been free—planned to be free—of Auna and her uncle—for many hours. And Winter was in Plymouth.
He returned to his bed and suffered a flood of desolate thoughts to flow through his mind, till barn cocks were crowing against each other in the grey of dawn. He got up, threw open his window and saw stars still hanging over Shipley Tor. Then he returned to his bed again, and worn out, slept at last. It wanted but five minutes to the breakfast hour when he awoke, then dressed hurriedly and descended unshaved to his children.
He was very taciturn; but they did not notice that he kept a heavier silence than usual and chattered among themselves.
"'Red Beauty's' got her puppies, father," said Avis. "Four."
"Good—good," he answered.
John Henry was going to Bullstone Farm for the day and meant to spend some time with Bob Elvin at Owley also.
"Mother thought that when I went, I might take one of the ox tongues she cured, for Mr. Elvin, because he can't let down his food very well nowadays," said John Henry.
"An excellent notion," answered his father. "Be sure you remember it."
"And ask Bob if he's coming Sunday," said Avis.
John Henry laughed knowingly.