"He ended mother's days whether or no," argued Avis. "And mother was always a thousand times more to us than father. And you can't expect us—especially me with my honeymoon spoiled—to feel overmuch for him."
"Auna was always the one for your father," said Mrs. Elvin. "It was the same from the beginning."
"Because she was so like mother," answered Avis. "Mother must have been the daps of Auna, when she was young. But why Auna always clung to father and put him before everybody, none of us ever did know. Grandmother's done with her, because she's a liar."
"They are too different in their natures to get on very well I expect," said Robert. "Come out and look at the ponies afore it's dark, Avis."
They were still lovers and only happy in each other's company.
CHAPTER III
THE PILGRIM FATHERS
None could explain the malady that overtook Judith Huxam after the death of her daughter. The termination of Margery's life did not appear to be the cause, for Judith shed no tears on man or woman who, as she described it, had "died in Christ." Her child was safe, and the febrile disorder that upset Mrs. Huxam on returning home arose from other causes. All, save Barlow himself, supposed that she was very naturally shocked into sickness by the events reported from the Barbican. How she had taken Margery to her brother's, that she might pass in peace; how Bullstone had discovered the hiding-place and thrust in upon it; how he had actually arrived but a few moments after his wife's death; and how Judith's struggle against the violence of the men had caused her to faint in Barlow's arms—these things were known, and none of her own circle but applauded Mrs. Huxam, rejoiced that she had achieved her high purpose, and felt that such a victory was more than sufficient to explain her subsequent collapse.
One, however, understood it differently, and that was Mr. Huxam. He believed that the cause of Judith's tribulation rested with himself. Indeed, as time passed and his wife gradually returned to physical strength and her accustomed health of mind and body, Barlow perceived that he had done a thing which would modify Judith's attitude to him for ever.
That at least became clear—a picture indelibly printed on the combined surface of their lives when the storm had passed, their daughter was in her grave and the tumultuous moments of her death a memory. Slowly Huxam understood that henceforth his wife would not regard him as of old. That he should have assisted Jacob to find her was, it appeared, a lapse that could never leave future relations unmarked, and when again he saw her brother, Lawrence Pulleyblank, who had also won Judith's displeasure, the old fisherman doubted not that Barlow's action, together with the united operation of the three men in breaking down the door, had for ever darkened Judith's opinion of them both. Lawrence trusted that, with time, his sister would see their deed was natural, in the light of her silence when they challenged; but Barlow knew better.