“That he might have the money to pay.”
“Yes.”
“And the price was?”
“Sixty pounds.”
“I thought you said seventy yesterday.”
“No—did I?”
The horse-dealer’s instinct had for the time deserted him. He forgot to add ten pounds to the sum he had really given.
“Is he very much in difficulty?” asked Felise, growing bolder.
“I am not sure” (this was the truth); “I should like to know.”
Felise was obliged to move, as Ruy worked his face too forcibly against her. She walked with Robert towards the stables, thinking if there was any other leading question she could put. She could not think of another.
“Now may I ask you a favour?” said Felise, as Robert, having handed Ruy over to the charge of a carter, was returning with her towards the house.
“Certainly.”
“Will you not let old Abner Brown stay in his cottage? He cannot live very much longer.”
Robert’s mental condition stiffened instantly. The request brought him back from the glamour into which he had been thrown.
“He has already been there much longer than he ought,” he said. “I believe it is a year since he ceased to work.”
“Yes—think; he worked up to within one year of eighty-four—surely that should plead for him.”
“I have to consider the estate,” said Robert. “You know the circumstances—he cannot do any work, nor can his wife; we want the cottage for those who can.”
“But has he not earned a little repose, Mr. Godwin?”
“He can have it in the workhouse.”
“Do not say so—do not mention that dreadful place. It would kill the old man to leave his garden.”
“They will let him sweep up the leaves and weed the paths at the workhouse.”
“He is very, very old, Mr. Godwin; he has lived in that cottage more than forty years, and all the trees in the garden are his own planting—there are apples, and a cherry—”
“We want the cottage—we must have it; I know several who will be glad of it.”
“They are no expense,” continued Felise, “because their son keeps them; let them stay.”
“It is impossible! as for young Abner, he ought not to live in our cottage and work off the estate.”
“He works for Mr. Goring,” said Felise, beginning to grow angry; but she checked it for the sake of the aged couple. “Mr. Godwin, I will pay you—what is the rent of the cottage?”
“Two shillings a week.”
“I will pay it, then you will lose nothing.”
“The rent is paid now,” said Godwin. “You misunderstand; we lose the man’s work who should live there.”
“Oh, but they are so old!”
“There is the workhouse.”
“They will never go there.”
“They must; the parish will not allow outdoor relief.”
“Mr. Godwin, do let them stay; I have set my heart upon it.”
Who else could have resisted her? The argument and the trace of anger which had begun to rise had brightened her colour and warmed her whole appearance. Robert refused her point-blank. The stored-up passion of so many years, causing an irresistible reflex action, forced him to oppose her. After this appeal from her, now he knew she wished it, had a sign shone in the heavens still he would not have yielded.
Felise, recognising his stubborn mood, forbore to press further; she spoke for a few minutes with Miss Godwin, and left.
In the afternoon Mr. Goring came home, having consulted his solicitor, who thought that probably there was a right to enclose the spring, as it was on private property, though within a few yards of the highway. The question would be an awkward one; it might cost hundreds of pounds to decide it; he advised his client to have nothing to do with it.
“This is indeed a right!” said Mr. Goring “Time it is that such ‘rights’ should be abolished—the word itself is reversed in alluding to them. Has any man a ‘right,’ then, to enclose the air, the light? Doubtless, if it could be done, there are those who would enclose the ocean and claim it as private property.”
He set out that very evening with Abner to construct a dipping-place in a part of the stream that passed through his little property, intending also to open a footpath to it for the use of the inhabitants.
Felise inquired if he had heard anything in Maasbury about Mr. Barnard’s alleged pecuniary difficulties.
“No,” said Goring. “Why do you wish to know?”
“There seems so much trouble about us,” replied Felise discreetly. “So many farmers failing—that is all.”
Nor had Mary Shaw discovered anything.
Felise turned over Miss Barnard’s Dante scrapbook, wishing the owner would come for it.
Next morning she went over again to Godwin’s, fed Ruy with apples, petted him and praised him, talked a little while with Robert, and begged for old Abner’s cottage. In vain.
Four times in succession she visited Ruy, fed him, petted him, stroked him, and seemed more and more loth to leave him.
The fifth morning she did not come; Robert waited and worked with his hands, but she did not come. This was the Saturday; Sunday he did not think it at all likely she would come. He never slept, nor even attempted to do so on the Saturday or Sunday night. How he passed them it is difficult to tell, but he constantly moved something or other about with his hands. Two nights without sleep did not leave much trace on his bronze face; but his heart’s bitterness was worn deeper within him, as a storm wears gullies in the rock.
Already, so swift is gossip, the hamlet had begun to talk of Miss Goring and Mr. Godwin. Though Felise had helped them in so many ways, though her uncle was actually at that moment working for them, they could not say a good word, they could not credit her with any motive but greed of money.
“She be a-looking after old Godwin’s gold.” “Selling herself to the old miser.” “Hope his money will choke her.” “Never thought there was much in her, did you?”
Such was the tone of their comments.
Felise was disappointed; Miss Barnard had not called for the Dante scrapbook; after her bold effort she seemed no nearer
