She knew that she could safely leave the house, for her parents always slept well and would not be awakened by any sound that she might make.
She sat with them that night until they bade her go to bed. Then her mother ministered to her, read a chapter from the Bible, while Margery drank her glass of hot milk, and so wished her good night and left her. The hour was ten o'clock and she knew that nearly five hours must pass before she would start. A little milk pudding was always left beside her, to eat in the night if she awoke. This she determined to take at two o'clock, before she began to dress. Now the details, that seemed so simple at a distance, began to loom larger and more complicated. There was, after all, so much to do before she could get clear of the house, and the subsequent walk through the wood by the river began to seem a great thing. For she, who had once loved the night, felt nervous of it now. Again and again she wished that she had asked Jane to meet her near the post-office. She even considered the possibility of changing her plans and fixing another night, before which this detail might be arranged. But Jeremy would be at Lydia Bridge by three o'clock, and if she failed him, he could not be counted upon for a second attempt.
Her mind ran forward. She would leave Jeremy at the outer gate of Red House, while she,—about four o'clock, or earlier—would go through the wood and knock at the door. There was a bell, too; but if she could rouse Jacob without wakening any other, that must be best. His room looked over the porch. If she were strong enough, she would throw small stones and waken him.
She pictured him looking out and seeing her. He would certainly know who it was by star-light and hasten to let her in. The peat fire never went out at this season, and he would bring her to it and draw it up. He would not say much. He would be like a man fearful to wake from a dream; but she would speak. He must never know who had brought her home: he would not be jealous about that, Indeed he could not fail to guess. After all it would be very like Jeremy to confess in secret—for the sake of Jacob's applause and possible reward. Her husband would take her up to her room, then, and leave her to go to sleep, while he dressed and began the day. And presently her children would come to see her, while the familiar sounds would be in her ears—the song of the river, the bleating of the goats and the barking of the dogs. Puppies would tumble into her lap again—new puppies that she had never seen; and old dogs she remembered would be there to remember her. She would be very still and rest all day; and then painful things must happen, for Avis, or Peter, must go swiftly in the morning to tell them at Brent and allay their alarm. She started out of this dream, for already she seemed lying in her own bed at home. But she was not there yet. Thinking wearied her. A clock struck midnight.
She was back again in thought at Red House presently. It seemed already hastening to meet her, instead of withdrawing far away under the stars and waiting for her to come to it. Her mind wandered over little homely things and indulged in little homely wonders. How was Jacob's linen? Auna mended for him now. And her own shards and husks—Auna had told her that nothing of them was touched. Jacob never allowed anybody to go near the great wardrobe that he had bought for her when they were married. But her clothes had curiously interested him. She doubted not that he looked at the empty rags sometimes and took care of them. He had always treasured the russet costume in which she was so nearly drowned before their marriage. She concentrated upon Jacob and wondered why he wanted her, and what he would think if he knew that she wanted him. Another hour passed and for a little while she slept, then woke frightened lest she had slept too long.
Elsewhere a scene of unusual vivacity was taking place which bore directly upon Margery's affairs; and while she reflected and dreamed, her parents entered upon a lively argument ere they slumbered. Barlow had taken his lozenge and was about to sleep when his wife addressed him and touched a matter already much in his mind.
"I'm a long way short of comfortable about Margery," she began, and he declared the same uneasiness. That he should echo her doubt interested Judith, but on questioning him she found that his fears were not concerned with her daughter's soul. Her bodily state it was that agitated him.
"Dr. Briggs told me only to-day she was going back rather than forward. She wants a good shake-up in his opinion, and a very serious thing is this: that she's not anxious to get well seemingly. Doctor held that was a grave symptom, She's not set on building up her strength, and she doubts if she'll ever do it, unless something happens to throw her mind out of itself."
"Something will happen soon," said Mrs. Huxam. "There'll be the excitement of changing houses."
"It isn't that sort of excitement, Judy. We're too apt to forget that Margery was always a bit delicate. After the awful shock, and before she'd got over that, she was snatched away from her regular life and thrown into ours, which is quite different in every way. Quite right and necessary, but we can't realise all that meant, or all she had to go through, I expect. We only knew that she'd escaped from the evil to come; but there was another side to her home life which no doubt she's dreadfully missed and which we didn't know. In fact she's confessed it often. And now she's got anæmia, and that's dangerous in itself."