Children of men

by Eden Phillpotts

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."