The absence of imagination prevented him from amusing himself with possibilities of another life in another land, of finding a face some day in another country which might in part be to him as this one had been. This absence of imagination prevented him from seeing anything that was not immediately before him; it slew him, but it rendered him faithful to his passion and to himself in his death.
His death atoned for nothing. The manner and the time of it were absolutely and purely selfish. He died for himself and for no other.
It rendered no reparation—even imaginary or sentimental—for poor Mary Shaw; it had no appearance even of sacrifice for the sake of those whom he had so harshly treated; there was no redeeming regret. There was no nobility, however mistaken, nor elevation in it; with no thought of any other but himself he died, and it seemed to be no matter to the earth any more than the death of the horse beside which he lay.
By-and-by the night-crows returned to the carcase of the horse in the moonbeams before the chestnut-tree.
Godwin had left his papers in perfect order, notwithstanding the fact that he had done no pen-work for some time. They were all sorted and filed, and a memorandum had been drawn up stating where the money in hand was to be found, and directing the person who should be deputed for the purpose how to make up the accounts from the sorted papers. Not one sixpence of Cornleigh Cornleigh’s money was missing, so faithful a servant had he had. The mechanical precision with which this had been done was characteristic of the man.
This was the writing which he had gone upstairs to do, as the constable said, quite quiet and like a lamb. It had occupied him—with intervals of thought—till dusk. He sat awhile after it was finished, then took one of the pistols from the attic where he had accidentally found them, and walked to the barn. As for the act, it scarcely took three minutes till he was stretched lifeless with his face crushing the yellow fungi.
The silence about the chestnuts and the barn was unbroken till in the morning the rooks awoke in the wood on the hill and flew out over the fields.
Godwin’s will had been drawn up years before; it left his property to his sister, with the strictest proviso that in case of her marriage the money should devolve upon her children. Beyond receiving the interest, her power over it was little. His estate, real and personal, was estimated at about twenty thousand pounds; an immense sum to be accumulated under such conditions, for sums must be measured by circumstances. That which is a trifle to the financial monarchs of London is a vast amount in the country. What grinding self-denial, what harsh economy to himself and others that twenty thousand pounds represented!
When it became known in the morning that Godwin had destroyed himself, Mr. Goring and Martial reproached themselves for not at least having endeavoured to obtain his arrest. The circumstances of the assault on Felise, if sworn to before a magistrate, would have secured his detention, and might thus have saved his life.
That they should have thought thus, again shows how little we understand even those who live close to us, and whose actions appear to give a clue to their minds. Had Robert Godwin been confined in a cell for a month, or six months, it would not have altered his purpose. At the first opportunity he would have carried out his determination. Martial had been eager to bring him to answer for his conduct, but Felise had begged so hard that if possible the matter might not be made public, he had submitted.
Artistically speaking, Robert Godwin ought not to have committed suicide; he should have removed himself in some other way—he might have gone off to America, or disappeared. He rather spoils the narrative, giving a cold deadly sensation to the finale; but he really could not help it—it was his nature.
Martial received a notification through Cornleigh’s solicitor, that if he would reconsider his resolution matters could be arranged for him. Either the Squire was advised to make friends with the enemy, or it was feared that Martial’s example might spread, and others leave. Too many had gone already. There seemed the greatest reluctance to part with a tenant, a state of sentiment which to the older farmers contrasted singularly with the treatment they had received a very few years ago.
Rosa wrote him a letter repeating her noble offer; but despite these persuasions Martial remained unmoved, and took steps to leave the old place. Generous as Rosa’s offer was, he could not endure the idea of marrying with the aid of her money. Nothing could induce him to accept it; Rosa had not even this mournful pleasure.
What he should do when the stock was sold, and he stepped for the last time over the threshold of the house his forefathers had dwelt in, Martial had but the vaguest idea. While he was considering one plan and another the thing was settled for him.
A report of his speech at the Maasbury meeting got into the hands of his former London friends, who were so delighted with his independent spirit and opinions—particularly as these chanced to fit their own—that they sent for him to town. The former understanding was renewed, and the old quarrel forgotten. As the years had stolen on, the old folk too began to consider the end; they had no other natural heir but Martial, and with him personally had never disagreed.
An allowance—a very handsome one—was offered to him; but he refused to accept it unless employed in some way. The upshot was he was engaged in the design department of the great firm of marine engineers in which his friends were the principals. Here his ingenious turn of mind soon found scope.
