Children of men

by Eden Phillpotts

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.