There could scarcely have been a more remarkable instance of the reversal of the normal condition of the mind caused by suppressed passion. A lover would at least have said nothing; if possible he would have contrived means to enable her to enjoy fishing in the best reaches of the stream. Robert Godwin, whose mind was wholly occupied by Felise, fell into a fury, and denounced and threatened Mr. Goring in unmeasured terms.
The latter regarded him with something like curiosity instead of turning him out of doors. Another reason Mr. Goring did not wish to break off amenities with the steward was because he was the steward whom he had fought so often on public grounds. Now, if you personally quarrel with your enemy and order him off your premises, you lose half the value of your victory over him. He becomes distant—no longer a man, but a mere figure. Mr. Goring opposed Robert Godwin, yet his house was at any time open to him as a neighbour. Nor, indeed, did Mr. Goring feel any vindictiveness against him; he looked upon him as a study.
While Robert Godwin was storming about Felise, in his heart he was abstracted from himself with hopeless love.
This reflex action of the mind led him to oppose the very creature who could have commanded his life. Such cases occasionally occur where parents who have doted upon their children destroy them in an hour of temporary distress lest those they loved so much should suffer. Something of this reflex action may be found in the suicide who sets a value upon the good things of the world—upon money, power, place, credit—a value so high, as they are at the moment beyond his reach, that he determines to extinguish himself in order that he may never possess them. A backward, reflex action of the mind is often dangerous to mental equilibrium.
Never before had Robert Godwin stood so near the woman who had his whole existence in her hands as at the moment when she was stroking Ruy and inquiring how he became possessed of the horse. Her presence, the touch of her dress, the faint warmth of her breath—he felt her; it was almost an embrace. He had kept himself so much at a distance that the accidental touch of her dress was a caress. Having no imagination his love was not a sentiment; it was a reality of life, like the blood in his veins.
Ancient philosophers had a theory that the vital spirits were dispersed about the body, and flowed through it as the blood flowed. Perhaps there really is a germ of truth in this old idea; possibly there is a circulation—a current of the electricity of life throughout the nerves. At that moment this current stopped in Robert Godwin—his life stood still; his concentration, his abstraction was so intense that he was in a manner dead. His nervous force was withdrawn from his limbs and frame, and concentrated upon her.
He was not conscious of hearing what she asked him, although he answered correctly. He had no idea how he left, or how he came to be riding along the road. His duties for the rest of the day were performed in a faultless manner—nothing omitted, nothing slurred; down to the last item everything was entered by the light of the candle on the cobwebbed washstand. But the dial of time had stood still for Robert Godwin. He did not know if it were day or night.
She had promised to come over to his house on the morrow.
Her dress had touched him; her breath had reached his cheek.
She was coming tomorrow—after nine years she was coming tomorrow! Only to see a horse; but she was coming—she would stand by him again.
There was no sentiment in this feeling; it was a matter of reality.
He might again feel her breath; he might hear her dress rustle beside him. He would again meet the gaze of the deep, dreamy, grey eyes.
Yet it was not Felise; it was Robert Godwin all the time. His feelings were of himself; concentration became ten times more concentrated.
Robert Godwin did not inquire into the possibilities of the incident; but, despite his self-depreciation and conviction that he could never be anything to her, hope sprang in his secret heart.
Great indeed is the commotion hope arouses when it has been absent many years. Nine years had passed without hope—now hope returned.
The man could not rest. He worked with his hands the night through. He mended the gate; he arranged the ancient lumber in the attic; he was out to the carters at sunrise, relieved to have someone to drive.
Hope! This was why he could not rest—why he dug by the light of the lantern in the garden, as if searching for hidden treasure at midnight.
Felise, uneasy about Martial, had not ceased to think of Ruy; Martial must really be in difficulties to part with him. Her passion was completed by this thought. In real affection, if the loved one is in trouble, oil is poured upon the flame.
Mr. Goring could not tell her anything about Bernard’s difficulties. He knew in a general way that he was not wealthy, and that was all. Abner, the gardener, brought in all the gossip of the village, but had not mentioned this.
Felise questioned Mary Shaw—these village girls are such terrible gossips; but Shaw knew nothing, except that Mr. Barnard was very good-looking. The hussy did not add that once or twice lately she had had some conversation with that young gentleman. She omitted, too, to say that he had crossed her plump hand with a piece of silver, in gypsy
