XVIII

Entering the garden by a sidepath, Felise heard two voices in loud altercation, or rather one voice stridently asserting itself over the other, and she paused where she could see the disputants through the open window.

Goring in the whitest of white shirtsleeves⁠—just as he had left his spade⁠—was standing by the mantelpiece, resting his firm chin on his hand, and steadfastly regarding the steward. His high forehead, partly bald, and flecked at the temples with grey among the brown of his hair, expressed calm intellect reposing in itself. Not the nervous, eager brain which seeks preferment and must thrust itself to the front; the intellect which reposes and reflects.

There was almost too much mind for action behind that noble forehead; it was the thinker, not the doer. The clear, steel-blue eyes under their thick eyebrows, the set mouth and the firm chin, at the same time indicated an immovable will; a man who would have his way without the least outward noise or ostentation. His strong frame⁠—a trifle bowed, as those of men usually are who work with their hands for pleasure or profit⁠—and great breadth were fully exposed by his negligent costume; his brawny throat, indeed, was visible.

“If only papa would work among men instead of among trees, what a leader he would be!” thought Felise.

Mr. Godwin, with his hat on (not an intentional rudeness), stood by the table on which he struck his fist, clad in dark brown and wearing gaiters. He was of full average height, stout, and strongly built; he appeared capable of exceptional endurance. His fist on the table was brown as a piece of oak that had been exposed all the winter to the action of the weather. His face was neither ruddy, brown, nor black, but a mixture of the three; it was ruddy from a fullness of blood; it was brown from wind and rain; it was black from sun. His face might have been cast in bronze, so remarkable was the appearance of hardihood.

His features were regular, and, except that the cheeks were somewhat too full, might even have been said to be handsome, but they were cast in a set expression; his mouth⁠—the worst feature, being without curve⁠—did not smile; his brow had a line constantly there. This fixidity, and the extremely weather-beaten hue of his complexion, seemed to announce a concentration of character that made most people shrink from him. Mr. Goring was brown from the sun, yet beside Godwin he looked fair.

Godwin’s voice was loud; he hurled his words and shut his lips tight immediately; but his language was correct, for he was well educated. Possibly his exceptionally hardy nature had something to do with his pitiless character. A man with thousands in his pocket, but who was content with a coarse fare of bread and bacon, or even bread and cheese, was not likely to feel much sentimental sympathy for weaker beings.

His family had all been alike; “hard as crab-apples” was the saying of the countryside.

Every tenant upon the estate spoke in the highest terms of Mr. Godwin to his neighbour. At the public dinners Mr. Godwin was mentioned with the deepest respect. “A shrewd, first-rate man, Godwin; knows his business; a good fellow, too, at bottom.” Alone, in private, there was not a man who did not hate him; but not a man would have dared to admit as much even to his wife.

In Mr. Goring’s calm glance there was perhaps some little admixture of amused disdain. Godwin glared with his colourless grey eyes, the angrier because he could not impress the person he was attacking.

“You cannot show a scrap of paper,” Felise heard Godwin saying. “I’m certain there is no such deed. You have no more right to fish than you have to give that rascally labourer of yours more money than anyone else.”

“I believe,” said Mr. Goring, “that the law permits me to pay what wages I please.”

“It does not permit you to trespass and to leave gates open, so that cattle stray and do damage. You’ll have to pay for it, Goring⁠—mark my words! What right has she to trample down the grass and do every species of mischief? Even if you do possess, or claim to possess a right to fish, it does not extend to her.”

“Was it me, then?” asked Felise suddenly, coming to the window.

“You are the culprit,” laughed her uncle. “Why, you have the rod in your hand⁠—you’re caught.”

Godwin looked at her, and instinctively removed his hat. He growled something in his throat. He did not speak, but he had the grace to be silent.

“You are accused of poaching, trespassing, and doing every species of mischief,” said Mr. Goring. “Come in and defend yourself.”

Felise smiled, and went round the house to the front door; but on turning the corner started, became pale, flushed again, and then stepped quickly towards a horse Abner had care of. It was Ruy⁠—Martial’s horse.

Was he here, then?

She stroked Ruy’s neck, looked inside the hall, returned, stroked him again; in her agitation she scarce knew what to do, or say, or think.

“Is Mr. Barnard here?” she said at last.

“No, miss,” replied Abner.

“But⁠—but⁠—”

“Mr. Godwin came on him,” said the man.

Godwin riding Martial’s favourite⁠—how was this? Felise instantly felt that there was something wrong, and Godwin’s dark face appearing at that moment in the hall seemed sinister to her. His pale grey eyes⁠—colourless like water⁠—shone in the shadow of the doorway. She could not ask him any questions, but she did not withdraw her hand from Ruy’s neck. The horse rubbed his face against her shoulder.

“I’ve just bought him,” said Godwin, softening his voice as much as he could. “Do you like him?”

“Yes.”

He began to gather the bridle in his hand, taking it from Abner. Godwin was so near her that her dress touched him. She felt his direct glance beating upon her, as the hard sun beats on an exposed rock. There was no cessation in his glance.

She remembered the remark of the cottager that Barnard was not rich, that young blood spent money. Could it be that Martial was in difficulty? How else came he to part with his horse? Her heart quailed; quick sympathy confused her. She did not move aside that Godwin might mount, but stood by Ruy.

Godwin’s colourless eyes were bent unswervingly upon her face; he had the bridle in his hand, but he was in no haste.

In her agitation Felise did nothing but stroke Ruy, who was growing impatient for his manger⁠—so affection is wasted upon those whose sole thought is provender.

“I am afraid I gave too much for him,” said Godwin.

Mr. Goring smiled; the idea of Godwin giving too much for anything was good.

Felise was running over in her mind everything she could think of that would be likely to draw out the truth, yet without betraying her interest in Barnard.

“Have you had him long?” she asked.

“No, only a week or two.”

“From whom did you buy him?”⁠—as if she did not know.

“Barnard of Manor House.”

“Did you give much?”

“Seventy pounds.”

“Why did he want to sell?”

“Wanted the money; but I dare say there’s something wrong with the horse. I shan’t find it out for a month or two⁠—Barnard’s too sharp for me.”

Mr. Goring, in the porch, smiled sarcastically. If Godwin gave a man the character of sharpness, it went without asking that he was anything but shrewd at such matters as a horse-deal.

Still stroking Ruy⁠—her dress rustling against Godwin, Felise for the second time delayed the impatient horse; just as she had on the hills one morning.

“Mr. Godwin wants to mount,” said Goring at last.

“I forgot,” said Felise, and moved away; the steward, however, did not seem in any great hurry. He got up leisurely enough, but reined Ruy with so powerful a hand that the horse stood quiet, and Felise touched his neck once more.

“Will you come over and see us?” said Godwin. “My sister would be very pleased if you would; the meadows are dry now, and the path easy.”

“I will come,” said Felise, to her uncle’s astonishment.

“Soon?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Then she looked up at Godwin’s cast-bronze face, and asked in the most matter-of-fact tone she could assume:

“Why did Barnard sell⁠—why did he want money?”

“Because he’s a fool,” said Godwin rudely. She flushed⁠—he thought it was because of his rudeness.

“Beg pardon,” he said. “You will be sure to come tomorrow morning?”

“I will.”

Still Godwin lingered, Ruy fidgeted; Goring wished to go to his garden-work, but Godwin did not start. A moment passed without a word being spoken, when Felise slightly bowed and went in; Godwin immediately rode off without a word.

“Are you really going to visit them?” asked Mr. Goring.

“Yes, papa; unless you object.”

“No, I don’t object⁠—still, you know the man’s character.”

“That he is a tyrant, yes; but I am going to see Ruy.”

“Ruy?”

“Oh, I mean the horse. I heard his name just now. He is a beautiful horse, isn’t he?”