Her love carried her straight past the pitfall of doubt which had been opened beside her path. Her love shone the brighter and the steadier as she overcame. But she had known sorrow.
Again Rosa was avenged—her rival had known sorrow.
A lesser love might have doubted, might have made inquiries; words might have been spoken never to be forgotten. But this great heart was untouched. Had these insinuations been true, and had she known them to be true, it would have made no difference. No matter what he had done, he would still have been hers. But her glory was that she had not doubted.
Still she had known sorrow, and her head drooped as she waited under the Spanish chestnut. There were no songs in the copse now.
“He cannot love me,” she thought. “He is mine, but he cannot love me.”
Once, gazing into the clear water of the trout-pool and seeing her own face reflected, she had triumphantly believed in her power to make him love her. She had failed.
Opposite to her the interior of the barn opened wide and gaunt where the great doors had formerly been. Diffused light lit the interior immediately opposite; farther in there was shadow in the summer day. Burnt by sun and beaten by rain, the red tiles of the broad roof, coated with orange moss, glowed under the fervent heat of the August morning. The surface of the roof seemed to fluctuate, as if the colour came and went—now deep, now paler, red-orange alight with sunbeams. Almost touching it, the boughs of the other chestnut massed their cool green against the tiles. Underneath was the shadow of the vast cavern-like interior.
Since Martial had returned and told her all, it seemed as if she could not part from him. Perhaps the sudden loss of Mary had unconsciously rendered her anxious—snatched away without warning; perhaps she feared for him too, so that, though he came every day, yet she dreaded the moment of parting. She had got into the habit of walking with him as far as the old barn on his way home in the evening, and of coming as far as that to meet him in the morning.
As she sat opposite the barn suddenly she looked up—some slight movement in the cavern-like interior had caught her eye; but, on gazing steadily, she could not see anything. It must have been fancy. She recollected the idle tale that the barn was haunted, only to accuse herself of nervousness. Besides, it was broad daylight.
Immediately afterwards the sound of a shot in the copse startled her; but she smiled, knowing who had fired. Three minutes afterwards Martial came towards her, carrying his little oval-bore rook and rabbit rifle. It was too early for game, but the young rabbits were now ready.
They did not sit down, but walked on towards Beechknoll, past the still elms of the meadows, past the gnarled oaks, by the copses, by the green flags of the brook, pausing now and then in the shade for those glances which speak so much silently. Be sure she did not think the less of him because he had risked his life in the mill-pool. Natural enough that she should exalt his deed into heroism. When we think so highly of another, it seems impossible but that they must in some degree incline to our wishes. We transfer our feelings to them.
In the dreamy woodlands, by the running brook, it seemed to her that by-and-by surely he must love her.
XXI
The key turned, the heavy door of the cell swung open, and the constable who had just come on guard-duty looked in upon Abner.
“They’ve put her in,” he said. “It’s all over.”
“Yes,” said Abner, without lifting his gaze. He understood what was meant.
“They’ve planted her,” said the constable; his words to us would have sounded hard and cruel in their bareness and naked meaning, but he meant kindly. “They’ve planted her.”
Mary Shaw had been interred. Abner still said nothing.
“Her was buried in oak,” continued the constable. “Not many of her sort as has oak planking.”
“Who did that?” asked the prisoner, looking up.
“Miss Goring paid for it. Leastways her had it done; s’pose Mr. Goring paid for it. She said she could not abear her to be buried in deal like the workhouse folk. So her lies in oak. The kid is all right; Miss Goring have had it seed to. Don’t you fret; there ain’t no case agen you when it comes to a full bench.”
Abner had been simply remanded by Cornleigh Cornleigh till the day of the magistrates’ meeting.
“I knows that,” said the prisoner. “You knows I didn’t do it; they must be fools as says so.”
“Well, I told you I’d tell you all as there was,” said the constable, preparing to lock the door. “She could not have been buried nicer if she’d been a young lady. You’ll be discharged directly you sees the Bench.” The cell-door was closed.
The prisoner’s chin drooped on his broad chest. Out from his silent sorrow flowed warm tears, tears which neither the bitter loss of Mary nor the insult and injustice of his confinement could cause, but which flowed at a touch of kindness, Felise’s kindness went to his heart, already growing stubborn under the stony handling of fate.
To the dead there is no difference between deal and oak, or elm—a ditch is the same as a tomb; but to the living, who will one day die, there is every difference. Depend upon it, too great respect cannot be paid to the dead. Therein the deepest, the most subtle of the chords of human nature is touched.
In London the coffins of the “pauper” dead (let the word “pauper” be accursed!) have been seen to tumble into the stony street; a heap of the dead carted at once, like the carcases of animals, till they broke down the carriage. What terrible folly our boasted self-government of boards is
