Can there be anything more bitter than the view of happiness to the miserable? To the hungry to watch the banquet, to the thirsty to see the spring, to the sleepless to watch the slumberer; but these are little indeed to the torture of the jealous. The kiss that thrills the heart of the one, sears the senses of the other, as though molten iron had flowed in its sweet dew.
This was the molten iron that Robert Godwin proposed to pour over his naked heart.
Reflex action of the mind was taking him backwards along the path, setting his steps opposite to the goal; leading him to a darkness and a terror.
He contrived it: he fastened himself to the leathern bed of torture; he turned the screws; he stretched the sinews of his limbs upon the rack; while his spectre—his double—watched the writhing of the victim—of himself.
Why are these miserable things? Why cannot we be happy? Why is it so rare? There are some who consider a certain amount of pain and misery as part and parcel of the very scheme of existence; they find some considerable pleasure in observing torture, for they see in every pang a confirmation of their favourite belief; how pleasant it is to find ourselves in the right! So, no doubt, the Inquisitors watched the flare of the faggots and the agony of the wretch at the stake; his sufferings confirmed their faith; they went home well satisfied, having carried out the scheme of the universe, which ordains that there must be pain.
Godwin tortured himself without conscious knowledge of what he was doing: he was driven along—a force had fastened on him and urged him.
There had been something mooted about an average being taken of the wheat-crop on the Cornleigh estate; the idea had been started by some scientific agriculturist who thought that such statistics would “be of the utmost value.” Such is the invariable phrase—“of the utmost value.” Godwin had begun to work out this average from returns furnished to him by the various tenants, and one day he went to the Manor House and asked Martial to assist him. Barnard disliked the steward; still he was the steward, and the request was civilly put. He consented, and it was arranged that he should come to Godwin’s every other afternoon, and spend two hours or so upon the papers.
Next Godwin ordered his sister, who never inquired into his objects, much less disputed his will, to go and beg Miss Goring to call upon them, “as Ruy was there again.”
Felise was naturally extremely surprised, and could not imagine how this had happened. She was easily entrapped into going, and found not only Ruy, but Martial. Godwin proposed that they should stroll round the garden; seats had been placed for them. By-and-by he begged them to rest; he would rejoin them in ten minutes. They sat down—he went to his window. Ten minutes reached on to half-an-hour; on again, and an hour had passed before he returned.
Any trap is good enough for birds that desire to be caught. Felise was only too eager; Martial not unwilling. What had happened once happened again and again—it is unnecessary to recount the little circumstances which attended each particular meeting. That no pretext might be wanting, Godwin, who had caused the lawn to be mown after so many years’ neglect, actually furnished it with tennis. Evening after evening they played and rested, played and rested before him.
From his window behind the accumulated papers, with his left arm on the washstand, he watched the scene in the garden. He could not hear what they said; he had no doubt they conversed of their love. He stretched himself on the leathern bed of torture; he turned the screws and tore himself on the rack. He gloated over his own misery.
Two facts by degrees became impressed upon his mind: the first was that Felise was the lover; Felise was courting, not courted; Felise was the passionate one. Martial received her love rather than sought it; she pressed herself upon him; he quietly accepted without enthusiasm. Sometimes Godwin asked himself if Martial loved at all.
To the struggling man, labouring for mere subsistence, can there be greater provocation than to hear of another already well to do receiving a large legacy of no value to him?
Martial did not care for her, did not value her; yet he had her—for nothing.
Godwin, who would have given his life for her, was despised.
The question occurred to him by-and-by, did Martial in reality know who had returned him the horse? Was that why he had never mentioned the subject, or made inquiries? it looked like previous knowledge.
Godwin snorted at the meanness of the man who could knowingly permit a penniless girl to go to so great a sacrifice on his behalf.
Martial took the gift of Ruy as a matter of course; he had Felise at his beck and call—a mere mistress to him.
For step by step, Robert Godwin studying these two—holding them up close and closer to his mental vision as those with weak sight hold up objects to their eyes—step by step, thought by thought came at last to believe that Martial’s indifference could only arise from possession. How else could he be indifferent to such beauty? How else except he was cloyed?
She was Martial’s mistress—his willing mistress. This was the secret, and explained all.
Many observed in these days that Robert Godwin, as he rode through the town, was black in the face, as if an invisible hand gripped him by the throat and choked him. They said he was apoplectic; yet apopletic people were purple, but Godwin’s face was black. “He looks like a black ram,” said the shepherd in the fold.
The evening sun shone upon the whitish-green lawn, the tall grey poplar cast its narrow shadow, the angular scanty house stood gaunt and unsupported. Not all the glory of the summer could illumine the meanness, the scantiness, the harshness of
