But Adam was still working in his garden. Jacob guessed that he might meet Margery coming from Red House to see the other man; for she knew that he had gone to Brent. Jacob told himself that it would be wiser in future to keep his movements a secret. But, after all, Margery was not upon the way, and she expressed genuine astonishment when he appeared.
"Forgotten something?" she asked.
"I don't forget," he answered. "It's for others to forget. But I remembered certain facts, and they saved my journey. I turned just beyond Shipley Bridge."
He made no mention of Adam Winter, but changed his mind again, said nothing and took occasion to keep at home until Margery had next met Adam herself. This happened within a week, when she went to Shipley Farm to see Amelia. Her manner was pensive after she returned, and Jacob expected that he would now have some story from her. He knew that she had met Winter and doubtless learned from him how the thing she had chosen to conceal was out. For his own reasons apparently Adam had chosen to record the meeting, while Margery had not. But why had Winter mentioned the incident at all? How much easier to have said nothing. His wife's manner changed after her visit to Shipley Farm, and on the evening afterwards, she asked Jacob to walk with her up the valley in the idle, sunset hour.
Instantly he guessed what she was going to say, and a great regret flashed through him that he had not himself challenged her, after seeing Adam Winter. Then her version of the meeting might have possibly differed from the farmer's and helped him towards the truth; now that they had spoken together, no doubt she would have heard what he had said and echo his version.
Jacob decided to hear, yet believed that he knew what he would hear.
Above the kennels, Auna River wound through a deep place, where the moor descended to her margins and only a fisherman's path ran through the brake fern. Between steep and verdant banks the waters came, and upon the hills round about flashed gems of golden green, where springs broke out of the granite and fell from mossy cradles to the valley. Here and there the water-side opened on green spaces cropped close by the rabbits, and at intervals a little beach of pebble and sand extended by the shallows of the stream. Now the river spread her arms to make an islet, where grey sallows grew and the woodrush; and sometimes she narrowed to a glimmering cleft, then by a waterfall leapt forward again into the light. A warm evening glow lay upon the eastern hill and each isolated stone, or tree, burnt with sunset brightness; but the valley was in shadow, very cool after the heat of a late August day.
"I always love this place and this time," said Margery. "It's full of memories—precious ones to me."
"I thought you were like Billy Marydrew and never looked back," he answered.
"You must look back, to save heartbreak, if the past is happier than the present. To remember pure happiness—that's something."