The stupendous thought of an ultimate condonation made him giddy—not before the spectacle of a forgiving Margery, but at the vision of Mrs. Huxam and the Everlasting.
He alluded to the latter.
"The Lord thy God is a jealous God—remember that, my child, when any shadow of regret for the past steals into your mind. It's time you braced yourself, Margery. I think you might begin working here in the new garden."
But she shook her head.
"Not yet," she said. "I'm not strong enough in mind or body yet. Flowers would hurt too much, father. I'm going to love your new house, and I'm going to live in it along with you; but flowers won't die. There's some flowers never can die for me, though they withered away a good few years ago. I shall always see them and smell them and hear the honey bees humming in 'em. But there are some I'll never touch no more."
She was worn out after this conversation and Barlow hesitated long upon the propriety of discussing the matter with Judith; but he postponed any warning in that quarter. Margery had some return of her nervous weakness and was very silent for many days; while both parents exercised patience and Mrs. Huxam began to consider the desirability of definite steps. For her daughter's health and the doctor's anxiety pointed to the need of distraction and change.
Judith busied herself to learn Margery's view, but could win no expression or desire from her respecting her future. Then she went to Plymouth to consult her brother, Lawrence. It occurred to her that his niece might perhaps make her permanent abode with the old man and find a sphere of usefulness in ministering to him.
Thus it fell out that, for once, Margery did win opportunity for a long conversation with a child; and it happened to be the one child who regarded no ground as forbidden, and rejoiced at the chance to say things with which her young heart was full.
Auna came and brought a large can full of the famous goats' milk; nor had her grandfather the heart to prevent her from carrying it to her mother, though his conscience reproached him afterwards.
To Margery came Auna and brightened at the unexpected freedom, while her mother drank at the child's command and shut her eyes that the familiar flavour of the milk might bring a thousand pictures to her mind. The visions began happily. Then they ended in darkness—on a February day, when seeking the goats, she had met with her husband hidden on the hill. For thus it was with all her memories; they were prone to break off in a sorrow. Every train of thought ran into grief—and stopped there; and she told herself that this must be surely so, since life itself had now run into grief and stopped. She knew well enough, at the bottom of her heart, that she could never begin again and start a new existence. Some women might have been strong enough to do so. Pride might have driven many to build up a new fabric; some, out of natural energy, physical strength and fulness of life, might have survived; but she could not. Nothing that waited for her would be of a zest to make like worth living; and yet she spoke the truth when she told her father that she would not return to Red House. That she firmly believed; nor could she conceive of any circumstance to change the determination.