Reading by the open window of a sunny day, when the mind for a moment pauses from its dwelling on the page, and the glance goes out into the light, it is very pleasant to hear them—these peaceful rooks caw, cawing over to their favourite furrows. Doubtless you have heard them and rested. Robert Godwin never heard them.
Incessant physical occupation was a necessity of his existence. But surely there must have been times when, his hands being still and his frame reposing in the early evening, “between the lights,” his mind roamed in reverie, when fancy bore sway, when a dream or thought came to him?
No. When his hands were still and his frame reposed, his mind was simply vacant, like that of a horse looking from his stabledoor, or a dog by his kennel. He saw the wall, or the fireplace, nothing more. His mind was simply quiescent—vacant—like a mirror turned face downwards, as old countryfolk place them on the bed in a storm of thunder and lightning.
In such a position the glass reflects nothing, and so when his hands were still Godwin’s mind reflected nothing. It did not work within itself. Thus it was that on lying down at bedtime he fell instantly asleep, sound, undisturbed, complete, like an animal’s. No long train of aerial fancies passed through his mind; that organ, like a muscle unemployed, fell into perfect repose.
This incessant work was not persevered in as a “religion,” such as it is the fashion nowadays to “dignify” toil for the benefit of those who own factories. Nor was it the restless energy of a great genius, for Godwin had no ambition, and to drive nails in a carpenter’s shop would have contented him as well as to lead the army at Pharsalia, Nor was it nervous restlessness; he was quite without nerves. It was his nature.
Just as rooks fly because they are rooks, so Godwin worked because he was Godwin, worked and accumulated money, and drove himself, and every human being with whom he came into the smallest contact, and knew no more rest or fatigue than the old mill-wheel.
His forefathers had had money; it was a family, a hereditary trait—this faculty for accumulation. Robert got together more, and it was whispered that he had lent a large sum to the Squire. Certainly his will was law on the Cornleigh estate; it was no use appealing to the Squire, who merely referred applicants back to his steward.
There could not have been a more faithful steward. There was not a halfpenny wasted on that property, not the value of a rusty nail. Economy, rigid control, perfect accounts; every shilling brought to the board. Everything organized and in order; no confusion, no uncertainty. Above all, no weak paltering with tenants who had had losses, or suffered from illness or infirmity; no feeble yielding to the entreaties of the widow, or the fatherless children, or the unfortunate. The same rigid rule was applied unfalteringly to all alike, so that there could be no favouritism: “Pay or go.”
The steward allowed no time, consented to no compromise. “Pay or go.” Three omnipotent words, which brought to the Squire’s pockets an unfailing supply of gold twice a year.
Some did, indeed, say that the reputation thereby acquired prevented tenants with large capital from applying when farms were vacant; they would rather go farther and have more freedom and kindliness of treatment. However that might be, for the present, at all events, the Godwin rule was a success.
It was thought that the succession of bad seasons must necessitate a relaxation of this iron government, but fortune sometimes favours the hardest natures, and in this case favoured Robert Godwin. By a piece of good luck that neighbourhood did not suffer so severely at first as many districts; the crops were below the average, but not so seriously; some little allowance had to be made, but not much; the tenants certainly lost money, yet they could not make out a sufficiently pressing case to obtain much reduction of rent. Of late there had been more serious complaint. No appreciable difference was caused in the Godwin government.
He was ever on the alert, just the same, to detect the least infringement of the strict letter of the agreement; ever ready with objections if any expenditure was applied for; always watching for an opportunity to assert the authority of his master.
A labourer began to build a hut on waste ground by the wayside. Godwin had the materials carted away, as he had commenced without permission from the lord of the manor. A cottager had made a garden in a hedge, leaving enough of the fence each side to prevent cattle straying; he worked on the estate, but Godwin spied out the encroachment and had quickset thorns planted among the potatoes.
The thatched roofs of the cottages in one of the hamlets were rotten, and let the rain through; the poor inhabitants begged for repairs. Nothing of the sort: they could buy straw and repair the roofs if they wished; if not, the wet might drip on their beds.
Enclosure of the common had already begun when Mr. Goring came forward and contested the right of Cornleigh Cornleigh, Esq., to enclose. Godwin blustered and thundered; letters were written on blue paper; but public opinion had been drawn to the question, emissaries from powerful societies appeared on the scene, and the scheme was let drop.
Some day, perhaps, Mr. Goring would leave. These objectors have never much status or stability. They are not fixed like great hereditary owners. The Pope is dead—long live the Pope! The interests of hereditary estates are handed on generation after generation, much like the will of Peter the Great; but objectors, such as Mr. Goring, usually disappear in a few years.
