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Art for Children Experiencing
Psychological Trauma
Typeset in Bembo
by Swales & Willis Ltd, Exeter, Devon, UK
Dedication
PART I
Overview of Behaviors: Who Are the Children in
Crisis? Definitions and Demographics 1
PART II
Art Education in Practice 115
PART III
Identifying Future Directions 217
Index 287
Biographies of Editors and
Contributors
Note
1 Founded in 1974, and named Very Special Arts in 1985, the organization was
renamed VSA in 2010. In 2011, it merged with the Kennedy Center’s Office on
Accessibility to become the Department of VSA and Accessibility at the John F.
Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts.
Acknowledgments
The idea for this book emerged from years of struggling to meet the needs
of all students. With so few resources available in print form on art for
young people who have experienced psychological trauma, we looked to
each other, as professionals in the field, to share effective, successful ideas
and strategies.
We appreciate the opportunity given to us by Taylor & Francis/
Routledge, to extend the benefits of our successful, innovative teaching
strategies to a much wider audience.
Sincere thanks to our contributing authors, who graciously shared their
insights.
Our appreciation to Joe Lagana for reminding us of the disconnection
between research and classroom practice.
A special thanks to Beverly Gerber, who brought the three of us together
to make this book a reality.
We can never thank Cathy Gerhold enough for completing the over-
whelming job of copyediting. Not only was she thorough but consistently
demonstrated kindness, compassion, and encouragement.
Thank you to Mike Podlipsky for his IT assistance.
Part I
Overview of Behaviors
Who Are the Children in Crisis?
Definitions and Demographics
1 Introduction and Purpose of
this Book
Adrienne D. Hunter, Donalyn Heise, and
Beverley H. Johns
Many children are living in crisis, struggling with trauma from natural or
environmental disasters, domestic or societal violence, bullying, homeless-
ness, human trafficking, or from lack of acceptance of sexual preference.
Those who have experienced trauma may have been in the criminal justice
system or have family members who are incarcerated. Children who have
experienced trauma are less likely to succeed in school and are at risk of
dropping out of school altogether (Steele & Kuban, 2002).
Children may suffer different types of trauma, including simple, or single-
incident, trauma or exposure to repeated traumatic experiences over a pro-
longed period of time (Lawson & Quinn, 2013). More than one-quarter
of children between birth and the age of five who have entered the child
welfare system exhibit trauma symptoms. In 2011, 3.4 million referrals alleg-
ing child abuse were made to the child welfare system (Fusco & Cahalane,
2014). Childhood trauma results in a child feeling an overwhelming sense of
terror and powerlessness (Steele & Kuban, 2002).
The number of children who are homeless is staggering. In 2009, the
National Center on Family Homelessness reported that 1.6 million children
a year were homeless, and the average age of a homeless child was 7 years;
59% of homeless people living in shelters are under age 18 (Substance Abuse
and Mental Health Services Administration [SAMHSA], 2011). At least
7% of all fifth-graders have lived in a shelter or car at some point in their
young lives. Children who are homeless are often at risk of poor health
and negative academic and social outcomes (Moore & McArthur, 2011).
They are often exposed to other traumatic circumstances such as domestic
violence, community crime, and weak family structures. They are subjected
to repeated traumatic experiences. Many have family members who struggle
with mental health issues. Children who are homeless often lack the trans-
portation and resources necessary for full participation in school.
Racial minorities and students with disabilities are disproportionately
represented in incarceration. Students with disabilities comprise 8.6% of
public school children, yet make up about 32% of youth in juvenile deten-
tion centers (Elias, 2013); 15% of jail inmates were homeless at some point
in the year prior to their incarceration (SAMHSA, 2011), and 49% of
homeless adults reported spending five or more days in a city or county jail.
4 A. D. Hunter, D. Heise, and B. H. Johns
It is critical that educators be trauma-informed and understand the impact
that trauma has on childhood development and behavior. Whatever the
type of school setting the child is in, art educators have the capacity to meet
the needs of children who have suffered trauma.
Children who have experienced trauma may act out and may exhibit other
behaviors such as withdrawal, fear, or agitation. Their behavior communi-
cates the reality of their world and the experiences they have encountered.
The arts can play a vital role in the education of children who have
suffered trauma, are at-risk, homeless, and/or incarcerated. Effective inter-
ventions involve children in their own healing so they can feel safe and
empowered (Steele & Kuban, 2002). Yet many teachers feel ill-prepared to
address the needs of these vulnerable populations. Those who are working
with children need to understand effective interventions to help children
heal (Walkley & Cox, 2013). This book provides an array of teaching tech-
niques throughout, and each chapter features a summary of teaching tips.
Currently, very few resources exist relevant to art education for children
who have suffered psychological trauma. This book provides insights for
understanding and offers research-based best practices for enhancing the
academic potential of this growing population.
The purposes of this book are to:
References
Elias, S. (2013). An after school program for at-risk youth: A grant proposal project
(unpublished doctoral dissertation, California State University, Long Beach).
Fusco, R. & Cahalane, H. (2014). Young children in the child welfare system:
What factors contribute to trauma symptomology? Child Welfare, 92(5), 37–58.
Lawson, D. & Quinn, J. (2013). Complex trauma in children and adolescents:
Evidence-based practice in clinical settings. Journal of Clinical Psychology: In Session,
69, 497–509.
Moore, T. & McArthur, M. (2011). ‘Good for Kids’: Children who have been
homeless talk about school. Australian Journal of Education, 55(2), 147–160.
National Center on Family Homelessness, Substance Abuse and Mental Health
Services Administration (2011). Current statistics on the prevalence and
characteristics of those experiencing homelessness in the United States.
Steele, W. & Kuban, C. (2002). Healing trauma, building resilience: SITCAP in
Action. Reclaiming Children and Youth, 22(4), 18–20.
Walkley, M. & Cox, T. (2013). Building trauma-informed schools and communities.
Children and Schools, 35(2), 123–126.
2 Children Exposed to Trauma
Children in Crisis
Lisa Kay
Introduction
When we think about children, trauma, and crisis, many word associations
may come to mind: divorce, neglect, abuse, severe accidents, violence,
homelessness, poverty, fire, and even death. Children are typically exposed
to at least one traumatic event by age 16, but many will experience multi-
ple traumatic events by that age (American Psychological Association, 2008;
Costello, Erkanli, Fairbank, & Arnold, 2002). Some of these students may
be homeless, in-crisis, or at-risk; often these students have had traumatic
experiences that affect their ability to learn and function in social settings like
schools and art rooms. Similar to children who experience war, Garbarino,
Kosteiny, and Dubrow (1991) report that a high percentage of urban youth
exposed to violence and living in poverty develop post-traumatic stress dis-
order (PTSD). They may also exhibit “fight or flight behavior” as a result
of adverse childhood experiences, recurring trauma, or toxic stress.
Unfortunately, trauma exists in our lives, and surviving traumatic events
is often scary. The term “trauma” is broad and complex. It can describe
a wide range of experiences and events that can have a profound impact
on students’ social, emotional, and cognitive learning. Traumas range in
severity, duration, and reactions and can include serious accidents, like a car
wreck; illness; sexual or physical assault and abuse; violence (community,
school shooting, terrorism, war); or a natural disaster like a fire, tornado,
hurricane, or earthquake (National Center for PTSD, 2013). A trauma
Children Exposed to Trauma 7
could be one event like the death of a special pet for a young student, the
loss of a sibling for a middle school student, or the suicide of a peer for a
high school student. According to the U.S. Centers for Disease Control
(2003), a traumatic event is “marked by a sense of horror, helplessness, seri-
ous injury, or the threat of serious injury or death” (p. 1). These events are
coupled with an overpowering inability to cope (van de Kolk, Bessel, &
Fisher, 1995, as cited in Eisen & Goodman, 1998).
What Is Trauma?
The National Child Traumatic Stress Network (NCTSN, 2013) outlines
different types of psychological or physical trauma, including early child-
hood trauma, traumatic stress, traumatic grief, complex trauma, toxic stress,
and PTSD. Early childhood trauma is a traumatic experience that occurs
between birth and age 6. Depending on what has occurred, the traumatic
experience can have long-range impact on a child’s health, education, and
life. Traumatic stress can occur as a result of a painful medical treatment or
the sudden loss of a loved one. Grief becomes traumatic when the trauma
symptoms interfere with the child’s ability to experience a typical process
of bereavement. The combination of trauma plus grief symptoms can be so
unrelenting that painful reminders can create scary thoughts, images, and/or
memories for the child. Complex trauma refers to a child’s response to
multiple or prolonged traumatic events and the impact of this exposure in
their development (NCTSN, 2013). The Center on the Developing Child
at Harvard University (2013) refers to this type of trauma as a toxic stress.
Toxic stress can be physical or emotional abuse, longstanding neglect, sub-
stance abuse or mental illness of a main caregiver, constant exposure to
violence, and/or poverty. One of the key factors in toxic stress is the lack
of adequate adult support in a child’s life (National Scientific Council on
the Developing Child, 2007). Toxic stress is pervasive and recurrent. Many
children living in poverty experience this type of stress.
"You won't know it for roses now," answered Margery. "Poor dear
Mercy Marydrew—her heart used to sink when I came along with some
new flowers dug up from here. She was all for tidiness, and I do think
flowers gave her more pain than pleasure."
"I like them and I'll tend them well," promised Jane.
Her sister-in-law, regarding her with side glances, perceived that she
was possessed of childish charm. She was a pleading sort of girl—just the
type sure to win Jeremy's affections.
"My own impression is that it's going to mean big money from the
first," said the future huckster. "I'm itching to be at it; and I'm very hopeful
it may be possible to secure some of Miss Marydrew's furniture, so we can
go into Owley Cot as soon as Jacob likes. Father would help there."
"Not hard for you, however," promised Jeremy. "I'm the one to bear the
battle and come between you and everything. That's what I'm here for."
The family reassembled at tea, and Jacob, who had spent an hour with
Mr. Marydrew, declared that he was bearing up exceedingly well.
Bullstone found that Jeremy had already undertaken the new work in
spirit and was actually thriving at it, saving money and repaying his debts.
"Trust me," he said, "and be sure of this, that I shall return good
measure well pressed down, Jacob. This is the chance of a lifetime, and
something tells me my foot is now firm on the ladder."
They parted presently, and while Auna and Avis accompanied them for
a mile on their return journey to Brent, Margery thanked her husband.
"It's like you; I'm sure I'm deeply obliged; and father and mother will
feel as grateful as I do," she said rather formally.
Jacob laughed.
"For you and yours I do it. But don't be too hopeful. Jeremy isn't built to
help on the world—only to be helped on by it."
"Yes, yes, he'll try valiantly—a most well-meaning chap—but you can't
ask putty to take the place of lead. I'll push him and do what I may; and so
will you. If manners could make him, he'd be all right; but he's like your
rose-bushes—wants a lot of tying up and supporting."
CHAPTER III
The mind of Barton Gill was exercised, for he had heard painful news
and suddenly learned the unsuspected opinion of another man concerning
him. He felt shocked and cast down, having never guessed that Jacob
Bullstone contemplated the possibility which now confronted Mr. Gill as a
fact.
Barton was sixty-eight and, in his own opinion, as active and
apprehensive as ever. Looking back he perceived that he had actually
outgrown some weaknesses of middle age; while with respect to his
knowledge of dogs, no man could deny that it embraced everything of
importance.
Returning from Brent, the kennel-man fell in with Adam Winter and
revealed his troubles.
"Hast heard the black news, Adam?" he began. "But of course you have
not. It only burst upon me yesterday."
"He may have, or he may not. And it's all one, anyhow, since he never
feels called to give 'em. But in my case there ain't a shadow of reason. He's
built up a very wrong and mistaken picture of me. He's watched me in
secret, which ain't a manly thing to do, and now, like a thunder planet, he's
fallen upon me and given me the sack!"
"Under notice; but never any warning in the rightful sense of the word,"
explained Barton Gill. "I've been doing my work in season and out at Red
House for half a century, and putting the dogs before everything but God
Almighty, and helping to make 'em the world-famous creatures they be.
And full of zeal for the family, and pouring my knowledge into young Peter.
And now to be flung out."
"Well may you ax that. For no reason on earth but because I'm too old!
And only sixty-eight by this hand, and I wish I may die if a year more."
Adam was cautious. He felt very little doubt that Jacob Bullstone knew
his own business best. They had been neighbours for fifteen years and, so
far as Winter knew, Jacob regarded him as a good neighbour. They had
never quarrelled and not often differed. Indeed they met but seldom and
Adam saw Margery Bullstone far oftener than her husband. He had been
good to her children and regarded himself as an old friend of the family; but
his relations with Bullstone were not intimate.
"Not the sack then? You told me you were flung out."
"It's nature," argued Winter. "When we stand still, the younger ones
have got to pass us by. And, to the seeing eye, that's the first thing middle
age marks—that the young men go past. We think we be trudging along so
quick as ever; but we are not. And as for your life's work, you've done your
duty we all know and done it very well. You was born to work and you've
worked honest and helped on the world of dogs in your time; but nothing
stands still and dogs will improve beyond your knowledge no doubt. So I
should be dignified about it and go. Nought lasts, and youth's the flood
that's always making to drown all."
Barton Gill considered these sentiments, but did not approve of them.
"I had it in mind to ax you to put in a word for me," he answered; "but I
see I can't.'
"Not very well, Barton. I don't know enough about it, and nobody has a
right to come between master and man."
"Then you ought to be hopeful," said Adam. "If that was to happen,
you'd come back with a flourish of trumpets."
"I don't want no flourish of trumpets and I don't want to go," declared
the other. "It's very ill-convenient and unchristian thing to fire me now, and
I hope Bullstone will see sense before it's too late."
Adam Winter had some experience of the tyranny of old servants and
perceived that the kennel-man was not going to leave Red House if he could
stop there.
"For a woman she is," admitted Gill; "and when she calls home what
I've been to her young people, I make no doubt she'll see that a very
improper thought have come to master. But I haven't sounded her as yet and
she may not have the pluck to take my side."
They had reached the gate of Shipley Farm on the east bank of Auna,
and Adam stood a moment before entering.
"Well, I dare say it will straighten out. Look all round it. You've only
got yourself to think of; and if you was to retire, you'd enjoy a restful time,
and the respect due to you, and not be sorry to find yourself idle with your
work well done."
"I'm not going," answered Barton. "One word's as good as a thousand,
and unless the man uses force, I don't go. I've set the age of seventy-five for
retirement, and I don't break my word to myself for fifty Bullstones."
"A man's home is his home, ain't it? And who the devil's going to turn
me out of my home?"
Adam did not answer, but laughed to himself. He was still laughing
when he entered his kitchen, where his aunt, Amelia Winter, and his
brother, Samuel, had just begun their tea.
"I didn't expect you back so soon, my dear," he said to the old woman.
Amelia had worn well. She was upright and stout and strong—the
youngest of the party, as Adam always declared. The men resembled each
other. Samuel was but a few years older than his brother and Adam stood to
him for divinity. He echoed his opinions and bestowed upon him absolute
trust. Nothing his younger brother could do was wrong. Sammy's mental
eccentricities were considered quite harmless and they had seldom as yet
made him a danger to the community. If he ever displayed a spark of
passion, it was at any adverse criticism of Adam, and this weakness on his
part—once actually manifested, when he fell tooth and nail upon another
labourer for laughing at his brother over some trifle—was now respected. In
person Samuel appeared a larger edition of Adam, but of gaunt expression
and already grey. He was very strong and laboured like a horse. Work kept
his mind sweet.
"And what might you have seen to shock you, Aunt?" asked the master
of Shipley.
"A sorry sight," she answered. "You mind poor Miss Marydrew's
famous hat with the red squirrel's tail? It was a well-known feature—a
proper landmark round about; and to-day I've seen it on another woman's
head, and you might have knocked me down with a feather. That any
female could have the front to flaunt that well-known trophy! And such a
female! Sarah Saunders if you please. Properly indecent I call it."
"Her sale fetched very good prices," said Adam. "Old William kept a
few of the best things for his house; but they say he's cleared something
better than sixty pounds by it."
"He oughtn't to have sold her clothes, and I've told him so," answered
Amelia. "Clothes are sacred to the wearer in my opinion, and I'd so soon
have seen Mercy's ghost as her hat on that wicked head. It won't bring no
luck to anybody concerned."
Adam told how Barton Gill was under notice, and his aunt thought it a
hard thing. Samuel waited to hear his brother's opinion, and echoed it.
"Gill's worn out and did ought to make room for a younger man," he
said.
No great prosperity marked the farm, but Adam was not ambitious and
his future hopes only extended to his brother. He desired to see Samuel
safely through life and never at the mercy of unfriendly or indifferent
hands. His own needs were of the simplest. He had abandoned any wish to
wed, or raise up a family. He was content and his life went uneventfully
forward, brightened by various friendships. He was well liked but not well
known. To more full-blooded and energetic men he seemed shadowy; yet
none ever heard him say a foolish thing. His neighbours knew him for a
capable farmer, but they wondered why he stopped on year after year at a
place which offered such small opportunity for enterprise as Shipley.
Others, however, explained this seclusion as accepted on Samuel's account.
Samuel was happier in loneliness.
CHAPTER IV
ON SHIPLEY BRIDGE
The subconscious work of grievances and the secret attrition of their fret
are dangerous. Margery Bullstone harboured such an ill, and it had wrought
inevitable modification of character, for sense of personal wrong, if
indulged, must mar quality. She was barely conscious of this buffet, and
when she thought upon her life, assured herself that its compensations and
disillusions were fairly balanced, for she loved her husband and tried to
keep his fine characteristics uppermost in her mind; but she liked him less
than of old and her grievance appeared in this: that he hindered her and
came between her and many innocent pleasures which would have made
her life fuller and happier. She did not understand Jacob save in flashes, and
was dimly aware of perils in his nature and chambers, hidden in his heart,
which held danger. He told her often that he held no secrets from her, and
perhaps he believed it. Regarding temporal matters—his success or failure,
his money, his possessions, his plans—it was emphatically true. He liked
her to know how he stood, to share his hopes, to sympathise in his
disappointments. But this was not all, and Margery knew that in the far
deeper secrets of character and conviction, she had not entered the depth of
her husband's mind and never would. He was a warm-hearted man and yet,
under the warmth, flowed currents hidden from every eye. Sometimes,
more by accident than intention, she had dipped for a moment into these
currents, been chilled and found herself glad to ascend into the temperate
region of their usual communion. She knew he was jealous, yet he seldom
said a word to prove it. But she understood him well enough to read his
silences and they were unspeakably pregnant. They would sometimes last
for several days and frighten her. She had known bitter weeks when Jacob
addressed no living thing but the dogs. Then the darkness would drift off
and his steadfast and not uncheerful self shine out. Sometimes she was able
to discover a reason for such eclipse; sometimes, puzzle as she might, no
cause occurred to her mind. If she approached him, expressed grief for his
tribulation and prayed to share it, he would put her off. Then she felt the
cause, if not the fault, was in herself.
"If you don't know the reason, then no doubt there's no reason," was a
cryptic answer he often made, and it left her dumb. She was conscious of a
strange sense that somebody beside her husband dwelt unseen at Red House
—somebody who watched and noted, but made no comment. The unseen
expressed neither pleasure nor displeasure, but concentrated upon her and
chronicled her actions and opinions. Jacob seemed to be two personalities,
the one obvious, trustworthy, affectionate, the other inscrutable, attentive,
vigilant. If one Jacob praised her and seemed to come closer, so that she felt
happy, then arose the consciousness of the other Jacob, concerning whom
she knew so little, and whose attitude to herself she could not feel was
friendly. Had she been able to put a name to it, or analyse her husband's
second self, she might have felt easier in some directions; but as yet she had
failed to understand. Nor could anybody help her to do so. Perhaps Judith
Huxam came nearest to explaining the obscurity. But she refused to give it a
name, though her suspicion found vent in cautions to Margery.
Jacob was not secretive in many things, and a habit of his, quite familiar
to his wife, might have helped towards elucidation had she been of a
synthetic bent. He would sometimes himself harbour grievances for days
and then plump out with them. They were generally of a trivial appearance
in Margery's eyes, and she often wondered at the difference between the
things that annoyed a woman and perturbed a man. He was obstinate and
had his own way as a matter of course. She never opposed him, and where
alternatives of action presented themselves, Jacob decided; but some things
happened that she felt were a permanent bruise to him. They grew out of
life and struck the man in his tenderest part. None was responsible for them
and they rose from material as subtle and intangible as heredity and
character. Margery granted that they were very real facts and would have
altered them for her husband's sake had it been possible to do so; but to alter
them was not possible, for they rooted in the souls of the four children now
swiftly growing up at Red House.
At first the case centred with Margery herself, and while his boys and
girls were little children, he had almost resented the abundant worship they
bestowed upon her rather than him; but now the situation had developed,
though they were still too young to hide their predilections. Nor did they
turn to their father, as he expected the boys at least to do. They had declared
frank affection where least he expected it. Their mother was indeed first,
and then came in their regard not Jacob, but their grandparents; and he
found to his surprise that the Huxams attracted his sons and eldest daughter.
It puzzled him, even angered him; but he rarely exhibited his secret
annoyance and never to any but Margery.
Jacob Bullstone was exacting in trifles, and Margery, while she had
waived certain pleasures that meant much to her in her early married days,
always hoped to gratify them when her children were grown out of
babyhood and life still beckoned. Now, in sight of their crucial years
together, it was too late, and having from the first fallen in with her
husband's solitary mode of life, she found it had become impossible to
make him more gregarious and sociable. She loved her fellow-creatures and
companionship; he preferred loneliness and found the company of his
family more than sufficient. She was ambitious to entertain a little and
loved to see friends at Red House, or visit them; he cared not for hospitality
and could seldom be prevailed upon either to accept it, or offer it. He was
always craving for peace, while she found so much solitude to be
melancholy, and often sighed for distraction. She was but thirty-four and
her cheerful nature and ready sympathy made her popular. He was fifty and
regarded the life he liked as more dignified and worthy of respect, excusing
his hermit instinct in this manner. She loved to talk of her own and praise
her children in the ears of other mothers. He deprecated this desire strongly
and was morbidly sensitive about praising anything that belonged to him.
At the same time he would grow silent if others took his own cue, or
ventured to criticise unfavourably so much as a dog that he esteemed.
There was one golden link, and sometimes Margery confessed to her
father, though not to her mother, that Auna, the baby of the family, held all
together and might be called the little saviour of the situation and the central
fact of the home. She was physically her mother again—more like Margery
when eighteen, than Margery herself now was. She had her mother's eyes
and hair, her long, slim legs, her sudden laugh. She was an attractive child,
but very shy with strangers. Yet her good nature made her fight this instinct
and she pleased better in her gentle way than her more boisterous sister. Her
brothers made Avis their heroine, since she could do all they could
themselves and play boys' games; but Auna found this no sorrow. Her father
was supreme in her affections and his own regard for her echoed her
adoration.
He made no favourites openly, yet the situation could not be hidden and
none was jealous of Auna, since none ever had any ground for grievance.
His regard for Auna surpassed that for the others, and she loved him far
better than they did. Margery would not quarrel with the fact, and Jacob
explained it in a manner which left her no cause for complaint.
"It's natural that, after you, she should come first with me," he told his
wife privately—indeed he often repeated the sentiment. "She's you over
again—you, to every trick and turn—you, even to the tiny fraction your
right eyebrow's higher than your left. In body she's you, and in mind she'll
be you and me rolled into one. And she loves me more than the others all
put together, just as you love me more than they do. So never wonder; and
never fear I'll do less than my whole duty to every child of mine."
She never did fear that and was only sorry for him, that life had drawn
this difference. With such a man it was inevitable that he would react
fiercely in heart, though not out of reason. He was sensitive and knew
himself not popular; and when he confessed as much and she told him that
the fault was his own, since he would not court his neighbours and give
them opportunity to learn his worth, he would laugh and say she was
doubtless right. Yet, of the few friends that he had, he was very jealous, and
when a man offered friendship and presently cooled off, as sometimes
happened, by accident rather than intent, Jacob suffered secretly and
puzzled himself to invent explanations, when often enough the other,
pressed by a harder life than his own, had merely let him slip a little from
force of circumstances, yet still imagined him a friend.
Margery regretted her mother-in-law very heartily, for she had been a
valued factor in the home and acted as anodyne of trouble on many
occasions. She had taught her son's wife some precious truths concerning
Jacob and made her feet firm in certain particulars. She had won the
affection of her grandchildren also and she always possessed an art to
satisfy Jacob himself. But she was gone and with her much that Margery
had only dimly appreciated, but now missed. The wife also tended to forget
a point or two that had been wiselier remembered.
Jacob broke out sometimes and said things that must have caused
Margery uneasiness, had she not assumed their insignificance. What he
spoke in rare fits of anger was always of the surface and unimportant to
Margery, yet in another ear, if any had heard him, these speeches might
have sounded ominous. Galled sometimes by thoughtlessness in his sons, or
at an answer lacking in respect, he would roar harmlessly and even threaten.
She had heard him say that, since Auna was the only one who cared a straw
for his opinions, and valued his fatherhood in her, she should be the only
one he should remember. But these things were summer thunder and
lightning to his wife. Whatever his offspring might do, short of open wrong,
would never influence Jacob. What was hidden she regarded, indeed,
fearfully for its mystery; but that it would ever rise into injustice, folly,
madness she denied. He was a man too forthright and fixed in honour and
justice to wrong any fellow-creature.
And this she felt despite difference in religious opinion. She had never
probed this matter, but was aware that Jacob did not share the convictions
she had won in her home. He seldom went to church and seldom, indeed,
discussed religion at all; but he never spoke of it without great respect and
reverence before his children, though sometimes, to her, he allowed himself
an expression that gave her pain.
She did not doubt, however, that under his occasional contempt for her
mother's religious practices, Jacob remained a good Christian at heart.
Indeed he had never questioned the verities of Christian faith, or regarded
himself as anything but a religious man. But his plain dealing and
scrupulous honesty sprang from heredity and was an integral part of his
nature. He felt no vital prompting to religious observance in public, and his
dislike of crowds kept him from church-going save on very rare occasions.
Margery knew that he prayed morning and evening, and had indeed
reported the fact to her mother, who distrusted Jacob in this matter. For her
son-in-law himself Mrs. Huxam did not trouble; but she was much
concerned in the salvation of her grandchildren.
Margery wandered down the valley one afternoon when the leaves were
falling and the river making riot after a great rain in mid-moor. She always
liked these autumnal phases and loved to see the glassy billows of the water
roll, as they rolled when she came so near drowning in her marriage year.
She proceeded to meet Jacob, who would presently return from Brent,
whither he had been to despatch some dogs by train; and now she fell in
with Adam Winter, riding home on a pony over Shipley Bridge. She was
glad to see him, counting him among her first friends, and he welcomed her
and alighted.
"Haven't met this longful time," she said and shook hands. This they
never did, but for once the fancy took her and he responded.
"Leaf falling again," replied Adam, "and the autumn rain upon us. A
good year, however—middling hay and corn, good roots and good grazing."
"All right. 'One day followeth another,' as the Book says. And they're all
mighty alike at Red House. We don't change half so much as the river. Auna
was rolling down like this when I went over the waterfall, and you got wet
on my account."
"Sixteen year next month; I haven't forgotten."
"It's a long time to remember anything; but I've not forgot neither.
How's my brother, Jeremy, treating you?"
Adam laughed.
"New brooms sweep clean; but he's made a great start, and don't he look
a pretty picture in his trap? Up he comes, punctual as postman, every
Thursday afternoon for the butter and eggs. Long may it last."
"And Jane's suited too—so far. She gets off to Plymouth market on
Friday morning, and has done very clever indeed up to now."
"It was a great start in life for them, and like your husband to give it. A
wonderful good thing to do. Jeremy knows his luck I hope. But there—
Providence cares for the sparrows, though it over-looks the starlings in a
hard winter. Jacob's a good un, Margery."
"And heavy as gold—so a man answered, when I said that very thing
about Bullstone not a month ago. But I withstood him there. He's not heavy
—only a self-centred man. And why not? With a home and a wife and
children and a business, all packed up in the valley so snug and prosperous,
why shouldn't he be self-centred? Why does he want to be anything else?"
"It's narrow for a man," she answered, "and I often wish he'd go in the
world more, and welcome the world at Red House for that matter."
"I believe I might. You'd make a very good husband, Adam. A good
husband wasted. But why? It's not too late. Why don't you take a wife? I
should be glad, for it would mean another woman here, and new ideas."
"For your sake I would then," he said. "But the time's past, if it ever
came. I've got a bachelor nature and plenty to think upon without a wife."
"Lookers on see most of the game. I'm sure you're a lot cleverer and
more understanding than most married men."
"The open mind's a very good thing. I'd sooner be puzzled than always
think I knew. Such a lot always think they know; and always know wrong."
"If my Jacob could look at things from outside, same as you do; and not
always from inside, same as he does, then he'd see a lot clearer all round
life."
"He sees clear enough what he wants to see. He don't waste his time
looking at doubtful or uncertain things. What he does see, he sees; and so,
on his own ground, he can't be beat. I may see a bit farther and a bit more,
but my vision's cloudy. I'm not certain of anything."
"The fog will lift if fog there is. No man can do the things he does and
lack for the Guide, I reckon."
"I'll tell him what you say. Belike it would please him."
"Better not. He's not one to care what I might say. I'm a slight man in his
eyes. He might even think it was cheek my praising him."
"He thinks well of you and says it's a fine thing the way you work."
"I wish we could look forward. There's some things I'd dearly like to
know," said Margery.
"Lord! What a lot we should do to fight for ourselves and them we care
about if we could do that," he answered. "If we could look on ten years
even and see how we had changed—how habits had grown up and fastened
on us, how faith in our neighbours had gone, perhaps, and how, with the
years, we'd got more cunning, and harder and more out for Number One—
how we'd set to work to fight ourselves—eh?"
"It's you," she said. "It's you, Adam. You don't need to fear the years.
But I do. I'm different, because I've got children. It's for them I'd love to
look on, so as I might head off the dangers, if dangers showed!"
"None have less to dread than you in that direction. Wonderful children
—healthy, hearty, sensible. You and Jacob have made a very good blend for
the next generation, and that's something to be thankful for. If marriage is a
lottery—then what are childer? Look at my family. Who'd have dreamed
that my fine mother and my good, sane father should have had Samuel, and
Minnie, now in her grave, and me—me—only better than Samuel by a hair,
and often quite as mad as him! But there it was. The poison was hid away in
my mother's family, and they never told father till after he was wedded. A
very wicked thing and ought to be criminal—eh? My mother went off her
head after Sam was born and had to be put away for a bit. But she recovered
and never got queer again."
"I'd like to see you on one of your mad days," she said. "But now it's
you telling fibs, not me. Never was a saner man than you; and if you weren't
so sane, you'd be sad. But if you're sad, you don't show it. When I'm sad, I
can't hide my feelings."
"Much pleasanter not to hide 'em, if you've got somebody close at hand
to understand 'em. That's one of the compensations of a good marriage—to
share sorrow and halve the weight of it."
"Sounds all right," she said. "Perhaps, after all, there's some things we
married ones know better than you that bide single."
"For certain. Practice knocks the bottom out of a lot of fine theories."
"The things that you can share with another person don't amount to
much," she told him. "The sorrow that can be shared, and so lessened, is
only small. If one of my children was to die, would it make it better for me
because Jacob took on? No."
A child appeared at this moment and Auna approached from the abode
of Mr. Marydrew. Her father's movements were not often hidden from the
little girl and she was now about to plunge down the woody lane under
Shipley Tor by which he must soon return.
"And how's old Billy, my duck?" asked Margery.
"His cough has gone," said Auna, "and he gave me this brave stick of
barley sugar."
"I haven't sucked it yet," she said. "I won't suck it till father's had a bit."
"He'll be along in a minute, my dinky dear, and give you a ride home."
"Billy's terrible fond of her, ever since she went in once, unbeknownst
to us, to cheer him up when poor Mercy died. She popped in like a mouse,
and sat beside him, and told him what she'd come for; and he liked it."
"A good old pattern of man and wise enough to care for childer about
him."
"And who cares for them better than you? A fine father you would have
been, and I tell you again it's not too late."
"I've got Sammy—and a very good child too, when he's not crossed.
But he can be ugly."
"Small blame to you for not marrying," she said, "I chaff you, Adam;
but very well I know why for you didn't."
They relapsed into a lighter mood, and it happened that Winter had just
uttered a sharp comment on one of Margery's speeches, which made her
pretend to be angry. They were both laughing and she had given him a push
backwards, when Jacob came round the corner in his cart with Auna beside
him. He had seen the gesture and Margery perceived that he must have done
so; but Adam's back was turned and he did not know that Bullstone had
appeared.