Jacob left the post-office without seeing his mother-in-law again. He did not much regret hurting her, for he felt that her attitude to life was obsolete, and he had no wish that his children should grow up self-righteous and bigoted. He was in a good temper when he set out and saw flakes of snow drift past the oil lamps that lit the township. They fell fitfully as yet, but grew thicker as he climbed the hill and set his face northerly for home. He was comfortable and warm, for he had drunk before leaving Brent. His old teetotal habit had been of late years abandoned and he took spirits after his day's work. The night was very dark and he felt glad to have escaped supper at Brent. The Red House supper was taken about nine o'clock, and he would now be home before that hour. At Shipley he turned into the farm gate, where a powder of snow already whitened the earth. No light shone from the ground floor of the farmhouse, but a dull red glow outlined one bedroom window, while the others remained in darkness. The door was closed, but knowing that Miss Winter still kept her room and slept much, Jacob did not knock. Instead he lifted the latch quietly and entered the kitchen, which opened down a passage-way behind the parlour. The place was empty. A candle burned low on the table and beside it stood a jelly in a pudding basin. A peat fire was sinking on the hearth. Bullstone set down his oranges, and proceeded to leave as quietly as he had come. He was already in the stone-paved passage at the foot of a little stair, when voices from above arrested him. He heard his wife and Adam Winter. Each spoke once, and in the silence he marked every syllable.
"Quick—quick—there's a dear," exclaimed the woman.
"Come, then—come," said the man.
Then he heard Margery laugh.
Within five seconds the thing had happened, and for another five he stood without moving, without breathing. Then he turned to rush up the stairs; but he did not. There was no need for that. In another five seconds he had left the house, closing the door behind him. It was over—the long-drawn agony had ended and he stood justified in all his woes. At last the truth stared at him without one shadow to make doubtful its hideous face. He leapt to accept it. An indefinite relief settled upon him as he went panting home, for he could now make peace with his own soul. Already he had planned the future. He was amazed to find how his mind worked. He marshalled his thoughts coherently and vividly. He swept over many subjects—the children, their future, the new order of events at Red House, when his wife was gone and the place emptied of her for ever. Then only would his own heart and conscience become pure again and the muddy currents of life run clear. The dominant emotion at this moment was one of thankfulness that he had been right, for the possibility that he could still be wrong had ceased to exist and immeasurable relief attended its departure.
The children were surprised to see him and when he asked Auna for her mother, the child said that she had gone to Shipley with something for Miss Winter. He ascended to his room, to change his coat and looked at his watch. It was nine o'clock, and at ten minutes past nine, Margery returned with her shawl over her head.
She was flushed and panting.
"I've had such a run in the snow," he heard her say to Avis.
And the girl answered:
"Father's home."