"I'm sure she'd have told great-uncle if she had," answered the child, "because he's so good to everybody, and great-uncle would very like have given Mr. Winter a treat and let him go trawling."
Whereupon Jacob, stricken to passing self-contempt, made one of his great, periodic efforts to believe that all was well with his life. Margery had come home stronger and more cheerful than he had seen her for some time. She was full of activity, and she found her home very sufficient for present happiness and interest. She seemed a closer and more understanding friend than usual to her husband, and he argued with himself and strove to build hopeful resolutions upon her good-will. But to attempt such a position now, or regain peace, even for a brief interval, though it entailed immense concentration on Jacob's part, was in reality impossible, for the man had reached a main attitude from which no final retirement was likely until the actual truth should be attained—either to support and vindicate him, or confound him for ever. He struggled to some vague standpoint of hope for a little while. It served him but two days, then perished before a meeting with Adam Winter.
Adam saw Jacob pass his gate on the way to Brent and hastened to stop him before he went out of earshot. He flung down his fork, for he was digging potatoes, and joined his neighbour. Winter's object was only to thank Jacob for tending his sheep-dog; and when he had done so, he spoke of an incident from the immediate past as though it had no significance whatever.
"Funny how small the world is," he said. "To think that two such stop-at-homes as your wife and me should actually meet in a great place like Plymouth!"
Jacob seemed to forget that Adam was part of the tale himself. For a strange moment he looked through him merely as the teller—as a machine narrating fearful facts and not implicated in them. His mind thrust Winter and Margery back to Plymouth. He was alert, strung to acute tension. He pretended.
"Odd you should meet sure enough," he said, and felt the perspiration break on his forehead.
"Yes, faith, I saw her looking in a shop window in George Street. 'Hullo, Mrs. Bullstone, nothing ever happens but the unexpected!'" I said, "and she jumped around. Two poor strangers in a strange country we were, and glad to meet according. We drank a cup of tea together. But you'll have heard all this."
"Yes—yes—she told me all about it. I must get on now—I must get on now, Winter."
He hurried away and Adam, disappointed of a talk, looked after him in some surprise. He had not the faintest notion that Jacob was distressed at the matter of their few words, yet could not fail to see perturbation. This appeared still more apparent five minutes later, for then the farmer marked his neighbour walking back to Red House. He had evidently changed his mind about Brent and was now returning home.
In truth a great storm had raged in Jacob after leaving Shipley and he was tossed to confusion among frantic thoughts. He could not understand; he read guile into everything that concerned his wife. He assured himself that, as soon as his back was turned, Adam would go up the valley to speak with Margery. He felt certain Adam had read him, and was not deluded into thinking that he had really known these facts. Adam would doubtless perceive he had made a mistake to mention his meeting with Margery at all; and he would then hurry off to warn Margery. Inspired by this suspicion and feeling it vital that he should see Margery before she learned of Winter's conversation and admission, he turned back and made haste to anticipate the farmer.