Possibly Cornleigh saw the “girls” without exhibiting signs of admiration; possibly he had sometimes met women whose gentleness of demeanour reminded him that a happier fate might have been his had not a Letitia appeared; possibly sweeter feminine influences might have led him to act a little for himself, to examine and think before he affixed his signature to documents, of the real effect of which he was now profoundly ignorant or indifferent.
Still she was “just the woman for Cornleigh.”
Possibly the Squire, sitting sideways in his justice-room, was really perfectly conscious of Felise’s presence, and not insensible to her loveliness.
When at last the business was over, and someone asked if anyone wished to make an application to the magistrate, Felise motioned old Abner to rise, and advanced with him to the table. For a moment the Squire glanced at her, instantly resuming his downward look.
“You wish to make an application?” said the magistrate’s clerk. Old Abner did not answer him, but stared hard at Cornleigh.
“I knowed yer grandfeyther,” he said, shaking as he held on to the edge of the table in lieu of his sticks. For once I must write the words as he spoke them.
The Squire did not reply.
“I knowed yer grandfeyther,” repeated the old labourer. “You bean’t such a man as he wur.”
“What is it you want?” asked the clerk.
“State what you want,” repeated Cornleigh.
“You bean’t half the man yer grandfeyther wur,” said old Abner. “Why doan’t yer do summat? Why be yer allus at home? Yer grandfeyther used to come round to us folk.”
“This is irrelevant,” said the clerk.
“Irrelevant,” said the Squire.
“Don’t you know what you want?” asked the clerk. Had not Felise been there they would have quickly hustled the old fellow away.
“Want! of course I knows. I wants to know why he doan’t do summat. There be a passel [parcel] of fools about, I can tell ’ee.”
“His worship cannot sit here to listen to this,” said the clerk.
“Why bean’t yer gone up to Parliament House?” said old Brown, quite heedless of the clerk.
“Perhaps you will be good enough to explain what the man wants,” said the clerk, addressing Felise.
A little confused by the unfamiliar surroundings, Felise tried to make them understand. The clerk helped her by cross-questioning, and at last it was clear that the application was for permission for the aged labourer to end his days in his cottage.
“He has made such a capital garden,” said Felise, able to speak now. “He will never be able to live away from his garden. Could you not let him stay, Mr. Cornleigh? He worked for your grandfather and for your father—he really has been a faithful old servant, and he cannot have much longer to live. It is not a great thing to grant. Do, please, think how very old and helpless he is!”
The Squire glanced at her—the excitement had flushed her cheek; she was radiantly beautiful—and as quickly looked down again.
“It is clearly a matter for Mr. Godwin,” said the clerk.
“Evidently it is a matter for Godwin,” said the Squire, who always repeated what his advisers had said for him.
“No, no,” said Felise quickly. “Do, please, decide this one little thing yourself, Mr. Cornleigh.”
The Squire got up and went into the next room, followed by the clerk; they held a short consultation, and returned again.
“His worship will confer with his steward,” said the clerk.
“But—but,” said Felise, “if you would look into it yourself, Mr. Cornleigh, you would see—you would—”
“Mr. Cornleigh will confer with his steward,” said the clerk, closing his book and rising.
“I—I—hum—ah—I mean,” said the Squire, as he too rose and began to retreat, glancing momentarily, “I will confer with my steward.”
“But doan’t you know I?” said old Abner, as the Squire turned his back. “Doan’t you know I? Bless ’ee, I bought pegs of yer grandfeyther!”
Squire and clerk were gone together; old Abner became very indignant.
“Why didn’t he speak to I?” he grumbled. “I knowed his grandfeyther. Why doan’t he do summat hisself? A bean’t half the man his grandfeyther wur.”
Felise could not persuade him to come away till the sergeant of police approached, and taking the old man by the arm quietly led him downstairs, and out into the roadway. There he went quietly with her, still muttering to himself about the Squire’s “grandfeyther.” She drove him home, and left him at the cottage.
Mr. Goring was not in the least surprised at the failure of the attempt; for they considered it a failure since the Squire was going to consult with Mr. Godwin.
Mary Shaw was very dull and downhearted when she heard about it; she had had such hopes in her mistress, believing that her beauty would be sure to carry the day.
In his cottage old Abner was complaining to his wife of Felise’s interference and bad management. He was sure he should have got on all right if he had seen the Squire by himself, but she spoilt everything. “Hur would keep talking,” he said. “Hur kept on talk, talk, talk.” The truth being that he could say nothing for himself, and Felise had explained everything.
Ingratitude is the nature of old Abner’s race; so many hundred years of hard poverty and petty oppression have crushed out the better feelings, especially in the aged. For one act of kindness in eighty years, why should they feel grateful?
Still the fact remains that they are ungrateful, speaking ill of those who wish them well, incapable of understanding goodness of heart; the fact remains and renders them uninteresting and repellent, so that sympathy cannot attach itself to them. A little experience of their ways is sufficient to destroy the interest of the kindest-hearted.
XII
Felise was sitting with Martial in the shade of the trees in Robert Godwin’s garden. This was a week after the return of Ruy, whose return had in fact brought it about, though
