In after-days he shuddered at the recollection that in his anger and fear for Felise he might have shot Godwin; the deed might be justifiable, still it would have been homicide, and a weight on his mind for years. The mere change of his thought—a change effected in the hundredth part of a second—had saved him from this.
He cut the rope; he lifted her head; he called upon her name. His kisses fell fast on her lips, and under those kisses she awoke to the consciousness of a stream of incoherent words full of one meaning—love. Passion poured upon her—a flood of love fell upon her heart. His trembling arms held her to his breast, his eyes swam with tears; she knew that he loved her, and her joy was supreme.
XXVI
Except that the mark lingered on her cheek where the root had pressed against it, and that her limbs shook a little, Felise sustained no injury. The shock and terror, great as it was, was overcome by the happiness which so quickly followed it.
Martial loved her. In his struggle with the water in the dark mill-pool, in his struggle with the stolidity and stupidity which are difficult as fate to overcome—when death drew near him he saw clearly how great and noble, how precious she was, how inestimable her love. Her value was made known to him with that distinctness of mental vision which comes in the last apparent moments of life. The thought that he should lose her was more bitter than death—so bitter, so keen that he thought not of death, but of his loss in it. From that instant he was hers; but yet even then his own peril had not forced him to admit that he himself loved her. He valued her—he did not love her.
But her peril changed all things. Instantly there fell from him the artificial restraints he had cultivated, and his heart burst forth. His passion, so long kept back, overcame him utterly.
In truth, he had loved her from the first. Not only her loveliness, but that indefinable personality which is stronger than beauty had seized upon his mind from the very beginning. Denying it to himself, fighting against it, fleeing from it, still it was there. Her peril forced him to own his passion. The past was utterly gone, and he worshipped her with all the fervour of his heart.
So overcome was he with the violence of his emotion that instead of supporting her, she supported him. Her physical exhaustion disappeared quickly; his moral excitement could not subside. She held his head upon her breast; she soothed him; she whispered gently; her strong arms were about him.
Once again they knew no Time. The shadow of the chestnut-tree swung slowly round; the doves came to the wood from the stubble; a blue kingfisher passed, going to the brook; the gleaners rested in the field.
When at last they moved homewards it was beyond noon; they walked through the woodlands beneath the shade, they stayed beneath the oaks, they lingered at the curves of the brook: the breeze whispered their love in the trees; the murmur of the water sang to them; to the sunshine their love gave a meaning. The swallow flew before, but just above the grass; their hearts were swifter than he to respond to each other’s thought.
At home they had much to tell Mr. Goring of Godwin’s insanity. He could scarcely credit it, because he knew no reason for his madness; paradox as it appears, this is correct—we instinctively search for a reason for madness. While they talked in the little room, the window in which looked out on the garden, there was the sound of wheels, and a carriage stopped at the gate. In a moment Mr. Cornleigh Cornleigh was announced, and immediately afterwards entered; he carried a parcel under his arm.
“Morning, Goring,” he said in his jerky disconnected way, bowing to Felise at the same time very politely. “Fine weather—harvest—eh! Most of the corn got in about here—eh! Happened to be driving along the road—thought I would just call—excuse intrusion.”
Mr. Goring put a chair for him, and the Squire seated himself comfortably, facing Felise.
“The fact is,” continued Cornleigh, aware that they were waiting for him to explain, “I’ve some pictures here,” undoing his parcel.
“Fine engravings—first-rate—high art—great masters—raise their aspirations—labourers I mean. Were you at our meeting?”
“I was,” said Martial meaningly.
Cornleigh did not apparently notice the remark.
“Want you to help us,” continued Cornleigh, handing one of the engravings to Mr. Goring. “Distribute them, you know—worthy people; have heard you take great interest—charitable—so on. Really fine works,” turning to Felise. “Just look,” spreading them on the table. Felise could not do less than advance and look at the engravings.
Of all the people in the world Cornleigh Cornleigh, Esq., was the last person Goring would have expected to call upon him. No one could ever quite fathom Cornleigh, but there was an explanation of this move. His political prompter—the family solicitor—a man of much broader knowledge of the world than Godwin, had advised him some time since, in view of the next election, to endeavour to gain over certain opponents by a little cheap attention. Amongst these was Goring. The political prompter understood human nature well. He knew that the bitterest and coarsest opponent is often only an opponent because he has not been noticed; wounded vanity and overwhelming conceit is often at the bottom of it. Let the Squire call, or Letitia, and half the enmity would vanish. He was right in nine out of ten cases; Mr. Goring was the tenth, and the exception. This at least was the pretext Cornleigh put forward to Letitia.
But perhaps Cornleigh, sitting so quiet and demurely looking downwards that day in the justice-room, had seen Felise; perhaps he had
