“Why, he insulted you on the platform at the meeting,” said Godwin.
“Try and be calm,” said Mr. Goring.
“Try and be calm,” repeated Cornleigh.
“Let me go,” said Robert, suddenly ceasing to struggle. They left holding him; he walked out of the room and across the lawn, bareheaded in the sunshine.
“ ’Twas you as killed my Mary!” shouted Abner after him; he did not look back.
“He’ll come to hisself presently,” said the constable; “I’ll just see him home.” He went after the steward.
As the agitation in the room subsided, Rosa felt the necessity of explaining her appearance.
“I had something to say to Martial and you,” she said to Mr. Goring. “But I am glad Mr. Cornleigh is here.”
“I am sorry you found things in such disorder among us,” said Mr. Goring, offering her a chair, but she continued standing near Felise. She had evidently strung up her resolution, and wished to speak at once.
“Martial!” she said.
“Rosa!” his tone was somewhat constrained.
“It is not true that he wasted the Miss Barnards’ money,” said Rosa, turning a little and speaking towards Mr. Goring. “The truth is just the reverse—he straitened his own means for their sake. Martial! Martial!” (she spoke to him by name, but her face was towards Mr. Goring), “I—I did not know till the meeting that you were in such trouble. I—I am very, very sorry—don’t leave the old farm. I will lend you my money—it is four thousand—and you can settle” (she could not say “marry”)—“I mean you can stay. Mr. Cornleigh, you will let him, won’t you?”
“Of course,” said Cornleigh. “I—I have just mentioned the matter. Barnard, think it over.”
“No,” said Martial, “I cannot do it; I cannot go back; I will not submit again.”
“Can be arranged,” said Cornleigh. “Mistake put right, you know; all a mistake.”
“Do take it!” said Rosa. “It is my own—no one can stop me; but no one wishes to, for I have told papa. Do take it! it is four thousand—it is plenty.”
“This is very noble of you,” said Felise. “I hate you!” whispered Rosa aside.
“Oh!” Felise drew back. She understood instantly—a whisper, the sound of which the rest had heard, but had not caught the words, was enough for a woman.
“I cannot take it, Rosa,” said Martial. “It is too much to thank you for—it is beyond thanks; but I cannot—I would rather work with my hands than return.”
“But you must have it—I shall not be happy unless. There, I have said it—I will write—” her voice faltered a little. “Mr. Goring, will you come with me?” Mr. Goring accompanied her to her carriage, she repeated it to him more fully, and begged him to use his influence with Martial, and not to let him leave the old house. He promised to do his best.
Meantime, Cornleigh was fidgeting with his hat; though he was present, Martial could not quite suppress his feelings, and was perhaps more anxious than absolutely necessary in his inquiries if Felise’s arm was hurt. She assured him it was not. Perhaps Cornleigh did not appreciate these attentions to her.
“Must be going,” he said, rising. “Have engagements. Miss Goring—feel sure I can rely on you to distribute these [the pictures]—worthy people. Good morning [bowing]—most important, you know—raise aspirations—I—I—ha—hum—” and so exeunt.
Rosa had heard Martial’s speech at the meeting in bitter misery; he was leaving his forefathers’ home for lack of the money which she possessed so abundantly. If only he had loved her! Her love for him rose stronger than ever—in his ruin, and now that he loved another—he was dearer than ever. This noble woman—noble notwithstanding occasional pettiness—resolved that anyway he should be happy; and after a tearful interview with her father, she drove over to the Manor House; thence, as Martial was not at home, she conquered her jealousy, and actually followed him to Beechknoll.
Anyway he should be happy—even with her. With this money he could marry and stay. The sight of Felise almost staggered her, but she was brave. She could not resist delivering that side-thrust, “I hate you!”—still she adhered to her resolution.
By-and-by the constable came back, just to say (and get a glass of ale) that he had seen Mr. Godwin home; he was quite quiet-like now, and had gone up in his room to do some writing. “He will be hisself again tomorrow.”
XXVIII
The yellow moon rising above the hill cast long shadows of the chestnut-trees, and illuminated a section of the barn through the space where the great doors had been. The haze of August seemed to have lingered in the atmosphere after the sun had set, and streaming through it the disk of the moon took a yellowish tint. Thus the harvest colour stayed on into the night; burnt by the sun’s heat into the wheat and stubble, as hues are burnt in by the potter’s furnace, this hazy yellow remained. There was a faint yellow in the stubble under the moonlight; the dried grass retained a faint hint of it; the broad roof of the barn was yellowish-red.
Over the fields all things appeared dim and indistinct; the haze of day had settled down into the night. At hand the increasing brilliance of the moon—nearly full—lit up each leaf of the chestnut-trees. A star by the zenith, and one or two low down in the south, shone with the peculiar light of summer—they flickered slowly, and at each scintillation seemed nearly gone; their light was not equal to their size, and there were wide plains of the sky without a visible star.
The owl had gone past, and the bats had exhausted the excitement which seizes them at dusk. There was no sound of any living thing; the wind had fallen, and the low murmur of the brook among its green flags did not reach so far. Under the hill the copse was touched with moonlight down the slope of the treetops; their recesses were in the deepest shadow. For while the beams of the moon illumine the
