Children of men

by Eden Phillpotts

The other roared:

"It's over—it's done, you God damned scoundrel—all's done—all's known!"

Adam stared, and then a heavy fist smashed into his face and Jacob's other hand was swung to the side of his head.

He reeled; his hat flew off; half blind and groping, with his arms thrust before him, he fell. He lifted himself to his knees, but dropped again, giddy and scarcely conscious. He supposed that he confronted a madman, for there existed no shadow of meaning to him in this assault. He had once or twice seen his brother suffer from like paroxysms.

"Man, man, that's bad," he said gently, with one hand to his head, the other supporting him. "That's a wicked thing to do, master, and you'll be sorry for it."

Bullstone was gone. His fury sped him on his way, and not until he had breasted a hill did he slow down and his mind grow calmer. For some time he rejoiced at what he had done; then he began to be sorry for it. Often enough he had been tempted to physical violence against Winter; once or twice he had felt a gathering lust to do violence to Margery; but he had escaped the peril until this moment. Now ill chance had thrust his enemy upon him at an hour when self-control was impossible. As the sun rose he mourned his act, not for itself, but because it was a mean thing to smite a man just recovered from sickness—a blot on the large, inexorable plan now waiting accomplishment. He had succumbed to Nature, after successfully fighting her for so long. That any fellow-creature would blame him—that any husband would have thought the worse of him for killing Winter with his hands—he did not for a moment imagine; but his act stood out of harmony with the long story of his patience and restraint. It was beneath his character and reputation. He remembered an ancestor who had taken the law into his own hands and destroyed both the man and wife who dishonoured him. That was a deed orbicular, complete and tremendous; but he dreamed of no such course. He had sunk from his own high standards and regretted it.

Then he dismissed Winter and returned again to all that was going to happen when the Law had freed him. He meant to divorce his wife and begin a new existence; but he did not mean that the end of his days should be ruined and his destiny changed by tribulation forced upon him from without. He held himself guiltless and stainless. He was only one of many honest men who had been called to endure like indignity and disaster; but the sympathy of mankind would lie with him; and his own steadfast nature and large patience might be counted to gather up the ravelled texture of his life and carry on the old design in a manner worthy of him and his family.

So he argued and, keeping those who had wronged him out of his thoughts, reflected upon his children. They must not suffer for the loss of a wicked mother. Nor did he fear it. They were old enough to understand and would appreciate the situation. John Henry was already established on land presently to be his own. Peter would stay at Red House and gradually assume command; for Red House and the business some day must fall to his portion. Avis would marry in a year or two and go to Owley Farm. There remained Auna, and for Auna he felt no fear. She was his own, his nearest and dearest—all that he would soon have left. She would never leave him until the breath was out of his body. The future stretched stark and clean. He must suffer, and he began to realise how deeply; but the intermittent pangs of the future would not corrode and sear as the torment of the past. He knew that he might struggle back to peace, given the time to do it, for with self-respect all things are possible, and he felt that he had already regained that.

He dwelt on details. When she was free of him, the other man would doubtless take her. Whither would he take her? They could not live at Shipley in sound of his voice. The excuses to stop at Shipley would not hold now. The woman would see to that and remove herself beyond reach, both of him and her own outraged family. He thought of Judith and Barlow Huxam and imagined their dismay.

And meantime, with the snow-blink on one side of their faces and the firelight on the other, Margery and her children sat at breakfast. She had heard from Barton Gill that Jacob was not in the kennels, and after putting off the questions of Avis and Peter for a time, something seemed to break in her heart. A sense of destruction mastered her and she began to cry. Her reserve and the caution, practised a thousand times to disarm the children's questions when Jacob would not speak, deserted her. She was indifferent and could no longer pretend anything after the events of the previous night. She was also physically exhausted and had no wits longer to parry the youthful attack. She told them that their father was very angry with her and had said that he never meant to speak to her again. And then she succumbed and wept helplessly before them.