He was absolutely honest, except in a horse-deal, in which it is mutually understood that every man shall cheat his neighbour. His mere nod was his bond. The word of Robert Godwin was like the signed and sealed bond of a great railway company—negotiable; his word was negotiable. That is, if a man said Godwin had promised, you dealt on the faith of that bare word.
This much said, last of all, Robert Godwin was no hypocrite. He made no profession of Christian charity; he never entered a church. Not that he was an opponent of the Church; he was simply indifferent.
No one ever got touch of Robert Godwin. The man was always alone. While he measured a tree with the woodman standing by; while he rated the ploughman; while he bargained in the market, hustled and shoved by the crowd; while he spoke in public; if you sat with him in his house, still Robert Godwin was apart, separate, a distinct personality. His spirit never blended with the society about him.
His sister had lived with him as housekeeper year after year, and she knew no more of him than a stranger. He made no mystery of anything, yet he was impenetrable. She had inherited the Godwin faculty of no imagination; her mind, once the household duties over, fell at once into vacancy. She sat still and grew immensely fat.
The reason of Godwin’s intense personality was his concentration. He was fixed, absorbed in himself; he neither saw nor heard anything. He was conscious of himself only. The curving outline of the hills, the white clouds, the sunset, were invisible to him.
Riding away on his new horse Ruy from Mr. Goring’s porch that lovely summer day, Robert Godwin went straight into the town, executed some business there, returned home, put up his horse, and at once walked out into the fields to his men. He never stayed his hand till night; when the last labourers had gone slowly homewards, he was still doing something.
But even the long, long summer evening—Felise passed it sitting by the sundial dreaming—the long summer evening went away at last. Dusky shadows crept out and filled the corners of the fields; the orchards became gloomy; the large bats flew to and fro in the upper air; the lesser bats fluttered round the eaves.
Robert Godwin took his candle up into his bedroom, which was at the same time his study or private office. Probably in his grim father’s time it was the only room in which he could find any peace, and the habit of working there having once been established could not be set aside. The washstand was placed by a small window—a window deep in the embrasure necessitated by a thick old wall. Upon one end of this washstand Robert wrote; it was a large stand intended for two ewers, but only one stood on it, cobwebbed, for it was never used.
At the end of the washstand next the window Robert had his ink, his pens, and blotting-paper; his letters, documents, and papers were on the window-ledge, piles of them which could be seen from the garden beneath. Here he worked every evening, in solitude, by the light of one cheap candle.
This evening Robert worked later than usual, till his sister, weary of waiting, had her supper, and presently retired. By-and-by the last letter was finished, the last account added up, the last note jotted down; there was no more writing to be done. He took his letters out to the gate by the road, where he had a private box cleared by the mail-cart driver who passed about midnight.
Next he went round to the other gate in the garden to see if it was locked. From thence he visited the stables, and heard Ruy move in his stall; and then round the rickyard to see if any wandering vagabond dared to creep under a rick to sleep. As he passed the pump in the yard he tried it, to see if it acted properly; his hands could let nothing alone. Finally, he crossed his arms on the top bar of the gate leading into the meadows, and looked straight out across the fields.
Something, perhaps a hare, rushed away; he did not regard it in the least. The dog in the kennel yawned, shook himself, and looked out at his master, who never stroked him.
Dew was falling thickly, and in the distance a thin white vapour marked the course of the stream. The still trees, heavily laden with their foliage, were silent; there was not the faintest rustle, and nothing appeared to move in their shadows. Once a bird, perhaps a whitethroat, chattered a little in the hedge; but his voice sank quickly. In the warm stillness of the summer night there came a far-off rushing sound, very faint; it was the cascade, at the trout-pool where Felise bathed.
Above, the clear sky was full of stars, and among them the beautiful planet Jupiter shone serene. The sky was of a lovely night-blue; it was an hour to think, to dream, to revere, to love—a time when, if ever it will, the soul reigns, and the coarse rude acts of day are forgotten in the aspirations of the inmost mind.
The Night was calm—still; it was in no haste to do anything—it had nothing it needed to do. To be is enough for the stars.
Robert did not notice any difference in the night; he had seen hundreds of nights. He was listening for the roll of the mail-cart wheels. After a time they came; the cart stopped; the driver collected the letters, and went on. There was no delivery by this mail, only a collection.
Robert returned to his bedroom, took off his coat, looked at his
