Martial had caught himself at his old extravagances, his old romancing, his old ideals coming up again, and beside a woman. This would not do. He would guard himself carefully in future, and talk of anything but the ideal or imaginative.
All that Felise had once found in her solitary communings among the woods and far hills, now came to her in the tones of his voice. Yet she had scarcely heard the words he had uttered, and barely followed their meaning. She was thinking so deeply of the man, she could not think of what he said; she was silent for some time after he ceased.
Presently, remembering he was one of Cornleigh’s largest tenants, she mentioned the case of old Abner, and asked if Martial would use his influence with the Squire.
“I have no influence,” said Martial; “I am very sorry. I can do nothing. Don’t you know that farmers are despised? This Cornleigh Cornleigh was once asked by a tenant to put down a plank-floor in his house, as he suffered from rheumatism, and the stone-floor was cold. The Squire said stone-floors were good enough for farmers.”
“I have heard that Mrs. Cornleigh says it is ridiculous farmers’ daughters should be called ‘Miss.’ ”
“There is not the least chance for your aged cottager,” said Martial. “To the workhouse he must go; it’s good enough for him, you see. It is brutally cruel.”
“Why are people so unfeeling?” said Felise. “I cannot understand why they are so harsh.”
“Perhaps it is a lack of perception,” said Martial. “They do not see the misery they are causing; they cannot put themselves in someone else’s place. Has Mr. Goring been asked to sign the requisition and subscribe to the testimonial?”
“Testimonial?”
“To Edward Cornleigh Cornleigh, Esq., for his long and faithful service in Parliament. There is to be a grand demonstration to induce him to continue our representative. Everybody will go to Maasbury that day.”
“Papa—I mean Mr. Goring—will not subscribe, I am sure.”
Of trifles like these they talked while the sun declined, conversing not of what was in their thoughts, but making up little speeches addressed to the audience, as it were.
XIII
Felise was thinking: “How well he talks—what ideas he has! his voice is low, but it is deep and strong; his lips are well-shaped—I should like a kiss. That is a shabby old coat; yes, your coat is much worn, sir, but it suits you; you look a gentleman all the more, perhaps. How I should like to give you a new one! Who gave you that gold pin in your tie, I wonder—some woman? His ears are good; most men have ill-formed ears. His hair is very fine, like silk. I wonder what he is thinking of—me—is he thinking of me at all? There is a small mole on his neck. Why doesn’t he look at me—he has such fine eyes? Your hands are not small, sir, nor are they white. I do not like white hands; they look as if they could not do anything. Your hands are a little sun-browned, and they are not small and feeble; I think you could give anyone a hard knock, though you are not very big. Why don’t you look at me? Look at me straight in the face, now do, there’s a dear! I hope he is trustful, but why does he look away?—he looks anywhere rather than at me. Yes, you have a very good neck—that makes your head appear so good. Why do you want to hide your eyes? I wish my hair was just the same shade as his; how nice it must be to have hair that colour! His boots have been mended. Ah! it is hard times with him—wish I was sharing them! His handkerchief wants darning. How glad I am I gave him his horse again! How angry papa will be when he finds out what I did! He is handsome—I wonder how many girls have flattered him! I dare say he is quite spoilt. Will he ever like me? He will not look at me; I will contradict him presently, then perhaps he will.”
Martial was thinking: “How fortunate I exhausted all my romance before I met her! There is no knowing to what lengths I should have gone; but luckily all those extravagances are gone by. These are very common old Windsor chairs. I don’t believe our miserly steward has a respectable chair in his dog-kennel, i.e. his house—wretched hard old chairs; but how gracefully she rests herself in hers! Her body seems to poise on itself and repose without the chair, as if the chair was merely put there to content the eye of the spectator; she rests like an Immortal on the ether. Really she does do things nicely—to see her walk, it is a picture. I think she sighs now and then. I believe she breathed more deeply just then; of course she does that because it makes her bust swell and fall more. Oh yes, the cunning of these women is something beyond the power of man to circumvent. Breathe as deeply as you like, it is no use. I am case-hardened. I have been
