She came to him then, at the table, sharpening the carving knife on the steel before he cut a piece of cold pork.
"My, Jacob! Back to supper? Nothing's amiss? I've been to Shipley with a bowl of nice stock for Miss Winter. She don't pick up. It's her age against her."
He did not answer, and Margery took her place at the bottom of the table. Her husband preserved silence, nor did he reply to Barton Gill, when the old man spoke.
The children lowered their voices and looked sideways at him. Margery, who had come straight home and not returned in to the Shipley house-place, was ignorant that he had been there and left the oranges upon the table. She, too, fell very quiet and knew that she had gravely angered him by going to the Winters. She doubted not that he had set another trap for her; and this time he would think that he had caught her. She was not frightened but sorry. She had her emotion, however, ignored Jacob and talked to the others. Then, the meal ended, Bullstone left the kitchen and ascended to the little room in the upper floor, where he kept his papers and books. He did not reappear until Avis, Auna and Peter had gone to bed. Gill, who slept over the kennels, had already retired. Then he came back into the kitchen to get a day book.
"Wait, wait, Jacob," begged Margery. "Do, my dear man, keep your anger for me and not frighten the children with it. Auna's gone crying to bed and the others are cowed and full of fear. It's too bad. What have I done, after all? Visited a sick old woman with a basin of jelly. Is that enough to——?"
"No more," he said slowly. "I know what you've done—what you've done often enough before. It's ended now. All's over between us and I'm not going to talk; I'm going to act. And may the Almighty in Heaven strike me dumb where I stand, if you shall ever hear my voice again after this hour. I could kill you and I could kill him—I could have killed you together just now. But there's others to think about. My children are mine, so I believe."
"What are you saying?" she cried.
"You've heard my voice for the last time," he answered and left her.
He locked the front door; then he went up to his workroom and the place was silent. Only the house crickets chirruped and the fire rustled. Margery sat for an hour looking straight before her. What did he suppose had happened? What was he going to do? What could he do? Something awful had overtaken him; some evil things had come to his ears. It was impossible that her trivial act behind his back could have awakened passion so deep as this. She had not hidden the visit to Shipley. The children knew where she had gone and might have told him if she had not. His awful threats terrified her. He had said all was over between them and that she should never hear his voice again. He had accused her of adultery and declared that he might have killed her. She was very frightened now and feared for his reason. She blamed herself bitterly for going to Shipley and vowed never to err again. In this mood she persisted for some time, then it passed and she banished the fear that he was mad and grew angry at his insufferable insults. She pictured life without him, and without the eternal threat that sulked in his eyes. Then she considered her children and his. She flamed with fierce indignation at his allusion to them. 'My children are mine, so I believe.' And he had sworn before God that these should be the last words he would ever speak to her. But from anger she quickly returned to terror. He must be mad thus to attack her, and she, no doubt, had innocently helped to drive him mad. Her soul sickened at the thought of the long hours yet to pass before the morning. She fell into tears and abandoned herself to a frenzy of weeping.
He made no sign and presently she dried her face and determined to approach him. If he was mad, then it became her to treat him as a sick man, forget her own suffering and do all in her power to soothe his temper. It was past twelve o 'clock when she went upstairs and saw a light under the door of his little room. She nerved herself to enter and turned the handle of the door; but it was locked.