Robert Godwin had no such redeeming trait, and to my idea that was the best thing about him—he was no hypocrite. He was absolutely without any redeeming trait.
He was simply true to his nature. Nor was there anything exceptionally bad in his proffer to Mary Shaw; it in no degree stamped him as unusually evil; it was only what others do. Of course that makes it no better; still this is the real state of things. Such proffers are made every day of the year by the dozen to such poor girls, both by the rich and by those in their own rank of life. Mary herself had had five or six from various individuals. If you had explained to Robert Godwin that he had done a very wicked thing he would have been unfeignedly surprised, for he had never seen it in that light.
Mary was really a good girl, incapable of baseness. She was not to be bought or tempted; but she loved with all her heart, and she had a very warm, generous, affectionate heart. Big, broad-chested, loyal Abner and pretty Polly Shaw made in every way a desirable couple.
He was always in the garden, Polly was always running in and out; it was no wonder the flame was communicated to the tinder. Mr. Goring, full of his trees and his philosophies, never noticed it. Felise, dreaming of Martial, never noticed it; but the colourless eye of Robert Godwin—the rejected—saw it, and hated Abner.
After a time Miller Bond made another discovery while engaged with these rascal rats, and this was that a second individual occasionally met Mary Shaw in the rickyard by the mill-pool. Mary was frequently sent down into the hamlet; she had always the excuse of calling for a minute on her mother if she wished to run out after work was over, and Felise never said no. So she had plenty of opportunities.
Who this second man was, Bond did not know; he had so long been isolated at the mill that he knew scarcely any except those who lived in the hamlet, or sent their corn to be ground. It was a gentleman evidently—a gentleman who whispered with Mary Shaw for a few minutes, and gave her silver money, and sometimes stole a kiss, Mary not making much resistance. Why should she? What’s in a kiss unseen?—a gentleman, too.
Miller Bond said nothing, but was careful how he fired at the rats not to disturb this pretty little comedy in the rickyard.
It was Martial Barnard who met Mary Shaw in the rickyard, and his object was to learn beforehand the best opportunities of studying the Picture.
Martial had found it difficult to study the Picture because of Felise’s uncertain movements, so that he seldom knew where or when to waylay her. By making friends with Felise’s maid—not a difficult task to a handsome young gentleman free with his silver—he managed to discover what Felise was likely to do, and where she would probably walk on the following day; information which Mary extracted by sly questions from her unsuspecting mistress.
Mary was only too delighted to play her part in helping Felise to a lover. In her opinion so beautiful a young lady, and so kind and nice and unaffected, ought to have had several long before now. She was really happy in the idea that she was furthering her dear mistress’s interest, for of course she put down Martial as a lover; she could not have understood the fine divisions which Martial had drawn in his mind.
She only wondered why Martial, who was not at all shy with her, did not follow up his lady boldly and openly; that was her idea of making love, following up, and it was not a bad one.
Mary, however, was shrewd enough not to tell Martial of Felise’s morning visits to Robert Godwin’s, thinking that she might cause mischief; for Mary, who had hitherto believed her mistress heart-whole, could not at all understand these visits. Felise quite threw out her calculations by suddenly going into Maasbury (to the silversmith’s), and the result was that on that day Martial missed seeing the Picture, which was the cause of his lack of good-humour when Abner gave him the note about Ruy at his porch.
V
“If I was to tell you something now,” said Mary Shaw, as she brushed Felise’s hair one morning, “should you be very angry?” blushing scarlet all over her neck, and even partly up her forehead as she spoke.
“You’ve a sweetheart,” said Felise, laughing at the blush which she saw reflected in the mirror. “I can see it in your face.”
“Well, perhaps,” said Mary; and, encouraged by her mistress’s smile, went on to tell her by little and little of her engagement to Abner.
“How sly you have been!” said Felise; “and no one ever suspected you.”
“I didn’t know how you would like it,” pleaded Mary; and, the confession over, went on to explain the trouble they were in, and to beg Felise’s help.
If Abner’s aged parents were turned out of the cottage there would be no possibility of Mary’s marriage with Abner, for he would have no home to give her.
A separate home was out of the question—it could not be got; the utmost they (or other village lovers) could expect was to live with the parents of bride or bridegroom. At Abner’s home there was room; at Mary Shaw’s there was no room. The Shaw cottage was very small, and fully occupied by her own parents, an aged uncle who had a sort of right to reside with the family, and a crippled cousin (a girl). No place could be found for a fresh couple.
Once old Abner and his wife were turned
