This aged and helpless couple broke the unwritten law, for having grown old they could no longer work. They occupied a cottage without giving any return in the shape of labour upon the estate. They were in the way—there was the workhouse for them—they could not want a home at their time of life.
Many a warmhearted old farmer has such a couple in a cottage on his farm, and permits them to linger there till death. The unwritten law is not always so harshly interpreted. Still, it exists, and Godwin, a man of the hardest character, interpreted it according to his nature.
But the occupants of the cottage had broken the law in another manner; their son, Abner, worked for Mr. Goring, who was not a tenant of the Squire, and consequently while Abner lived in a landlord’s cottage he took the power (horsepower if you like) of his muscles off the estate. Someone else had the benefit of his strength.
There was, too, the possibility of Abner marrying and taking his wife home to his parents, after the country fashion. By-and-by he would become the actual occupant, while his horsepower was expended on another’s land. Those who occupied houses on the estate must work for the estate; if not, they must go.
To go, to an aged and helpless couple of eighty-four and seventy, meant the workhouse.
By the most cruel and iniquitous rule it is possible to imagine, it is not permitted to give assistance from the poor-rates to the oldest, the most helpless, and deserving of the population if they dare to live at home. They must go to the poorhouse, that abomination of desolation. This most brutal regulation would arouse the indignation of every educated person in the country if what it means could be plainly exhibited.
Abner’s crime was unpardonable—he was living in a house belonging to the estate, and working for a man independent of the estate. Mr. Goring owned the land he occupied; he was not only independent, but a resolute upholder of every species of independence. He was paying Abner about two shillings a week more than he would have earned if in the employment of a farmer.
The young man was intelligent, and had a loyal manner—I do not know how else to describe it—he took an interest in what he was doing, and therefore to Mr. Goring he was worth more than an ordinary labourer. But this was an extremely unpopular arrangement both with farmers and labourers. The labourers hated to see one of their own class paid better than themselves; the farmers objected because it was an example which might lead other men to ask for more.
Felise knew little of these matters—she had of course heard of them, but you could hardly expect her to enter into such affairs. She was, however, well aware of Godwin’s hardness, and his character for harsh interference. Godwin and her uncle had had many and many a set-to; in fact, quarrels were continually occurring between them. Godwin had frequently threatened litigation, but had never resorted to it, yet with curious inconsistency called once a month on an average to invite Goring and Felise to his house, which was not more than half a mile distant. They had never accepted the invitation.
XVIII
Entering the garden by a sidepath, Felise heard two voices in loud altercation, or rather one voice stridently asserting itself over the other, and she paused where she could see the disputants through the open window.
Goring in the whitest of white shirtsleeves—just as he had left his spade—was standing by the mantelpiece, resting his firm chin on his hand, and steadfastly regarding the steward. His high forehead, partly bald, and flecked at the temples with grey among the brown of his hair, expressed calm intellect reposing in itself. Not the nervous, eager brain which seeks preferment and must thrust itself to the front; the intellect which reposes and reflects.
There was almost too much mind for action behind that noble forehead; it was the thinker, not the doer. The clear, steel-blue eyes under their thick eyebrows, the set mouth and the firm chin, at the same time indicated an immovable will; a man who would have his way without the least outward noise or ostentation. His strong frame—a trifle bowed, as those of men usually are who work with their hands for pleasure or profit—and great breadth were fully exposed by his negligent costume; his brawny throat, indeed, was visible.
“If only papa would work among men instead of among trees, what a leader he would be!” thought Felise.
Mr. Godwin, with his hat on (not an intentional rudeness), stood by the table on which he struck his fist, clad in dark brown and wearing gaiters. He was of full average height, stout, and strongly built; he appeared capable of exceptional endurance. His fist on the table was brown as a piece of oak that had been exposed all the winter to the action of the weather. His face was neither ruddy, brown, nor black, but a mixture of the three; it was ruddy from a fullness of blood; it was brown from wind and rain; it was black from sun. His face might have been cast in bronze, so remarkable was the appearance of hardihood.
His features were regular, and, except that the cheeks were somewhat too full, might even have been said to be handsome, but they were cast in a set expression; his mouth—the worst feature, being without curve—did not smile; his brow had a line constantly there. This fixidity, and the extremely weather-beaten hue of his complexion, seemed to announce a concentration of character that made most people shrink from him. Mr. Goring was brown from the sun, yet beside Godwin he looked fair.
Godwin’s voice was loud; he hurled his words and shut his lips tight immediately; but his language was correct, for he was well educated. Possibly his exceptionally hardy nature had something to do with his
