XI

But some thought it strange that the House of Cornleigh should fear the serfs upon its wide domain⁠—those serfs who had enjoyed for so many centuries its fostering care. Why fear those poor helpless cottagers whose destinies they had swayed so long⁠—whose hearts they had doubtless gained by centuries of kindness?

Oh foolish House of Cornleigh! Foolish Houses of Cornleigh⁠—very much in the plural, for they are a multitude in number⁠—not to have made friends with Flesh and Blood, instead of grasping so blindly only at the mud underneath; neglecting and utterly ignoring the hearts that beat in the homesteads, laying hands so ambitiously on the mere surface of the earth.

Assuredly the Houses of Cornleigh will be swept away when the Browns and Shaws and similar folk can give utterance to their minds in the practical form of the vote under the shelter of Modern Magna Charta.

There is nothing so good as Law; nothing so evil as the Letter of the Law. Sitting alone in his justice-room, or in the midst of the fourteen other magnates at the Petty Sessions, Cornleigh administered the Letter of the Law in its harshest form to the labourers and poor folk who came under the jurisdiction of his tribunal. Most unjust⁠—though strictly legal⁠—were the sentences delivered upon the men who had nominally broken their contracts of service with the tenant farmers.

It was policy⁠—deep statesmanship⁠—on the part of the landowning Petty Sessions in every case to strictly administer the Law in favour of their own tenants. Nor were the tenants themselves blameless in bringing such charges⁠—legally, yet foolishly⁠—against their men, well knowing that the men would not receive equity.

Foolish Houses of Cornleigh, making yourselves infamous for unjust justice.

The wits in Maasbury dubbed the Squire, Mr. Justice Shallow Cornleigh.

The name stuck, but it was unjust to Shakespeare’s Justice Shallow; for it is a remarkable fact that in Shakespeare even the despicable characters have traits of manliness. Even Pistol beat a man.

Justice Shallow had heard the chimes at midnight, had made the acquaintance of the bona robas, had been intoxicated (by inference), had sown wild oats in his youth.

Mr. Justice Shallow Cornleigh had never been man enough to hear the chimes at midnight, nor to sow wild oats. His youth was blameless.

Justice Shallow had corn and beeves⁠—riches gained by his own perseverance and parsimony in his settled middle-age.

Mr. Justice Shallow Cornleigh had indeed land and beeves, but he had them in the same way as the puppy gets the hearthrug⁠—because he was born in the family, not because of any exertions of his own.

Justice Shallow had spirit enough left in his old days to lend Falstaff a thousand pounds to push him at Court.

Mr. Justice Shallow Cornleigh scrupulously bound every volume of “The Sporting Calendar,” but had never made a bet.

Justice Shallow, lean and foolish, had traits of manliness; but of Cornleigh nothing of the sort had ever been recorded. The head of the House of Cornleigh was a nonentity.

This was his fault, his guilt, his crime, in that he did nothing⁠—that he left all things to his steward Robert Godwin, to his Letitia, to the fourteen other magnates whose sentences he pronounced in Petty Sessions.

With his authority he stamped their folly, and became responsible for it. Iniquity was done in his name, and he cast down his eyes and did not see it.

It is a terrible thing when a fool sits in the place of power. Oppression is done without redress.

The system is beyond defence which permits fools to sit in the place of power.

Cornleigh himself was personally guiltless, but he made possible the crimes of others; he signed his name and sanctioned their tyrannies. Yet even in Maasbury, where so much had been done to alienate everyone, there was no animosity against the Squire himself. It was felt that it was not him.

“Just the thing for Cornleigh! Capital thing for Cornleigh! Most energetic woman⁠—just the woman for Cornleigh!”

Whenever an important division was at hand, the Squire ran up to town, patiently sat out the debate, recorded his vote on the right side, and came down home again to his morning cigar in the lane.

His morning cigar in the lane under the oak was Cornleigh’s real life. Cast down upon the sward, his gaze did not appear conscious of the sunshine or the shade, the white clouds drifting over, the squirrels leaping, the blackbirds passing from time to time. But we do not see with our eyes only; we possess a sense which enables us to feel that things are there without actually seeing them. The outward appearance is not always an indication of the inner feelings, any more than the acts by which the world judges are always of our own free will. The inscrutable Squire may have seen, may have felt, and understood much more than he was credited with. “He never looks at no girls,” said the keeper.

Possibly Cornleigh saw the “girls” without exhibiting signs of admiration; possibly he had sometimes met women whose gentleness of demeanour reminded him that a happier fate might have been his had not a Letitia appeared; possibly sweeter feminine influences might have led him to act a little for himself, to examine and think before he affixed his signature to documents, of the real effect of which he was now profoundly ignorant or indifferent.

Still she was “just the woman for Cornleigh.”

Possibly the Squire, sitting sideways in his justice-room, was really perfectly conscious of Felise’s presence, and not insensible to her loveliness.

When at last the business was over, and someone asked if anyone wished to make an application to the magistrate, Felise motioned old Abner to rise, and advanced with him to the table. For a moment the Squire glanced at her, instantly resuming his downward look.

“You wish to make an application?” said the magistrate’s clerk. Old Abner did not answer him, but stared hard at Cornleigh.

“I knowed yer grandfeyther,” he said, shaking as he held on to the edge of the table in lieu of his sticks. For once I must write the words as he spoke them.

The Squire did not reply.

“I knowed yer grandfeyther,” repeated the old labourer. “You bean’t such a man as he wur.”

“What is it you want?” asked the clerk.

“State what you want,” repeated Cornleigh.

“You bean’t half the man yer grandfeyther wur,” said old Abner. “Why doan’t yer do summat? Why be yer allus at home? Yer grandfeyther used to come round to us folk.”

“This is irrelevant,” said the clerk.

“Irrelevant,” said the Squire.

“Don’t you know what you want?” asked the clerk. Had not Felise been there they would have quickly hustled the old fellow away.

“Want! of course I knows. I wants to know why he doan’t do summat. There be a passel [parcel] of fools about, I can tell ’ee.”

“His worship cannot sit here to listen to this,” said the clerk.

“Why bean’t yer gone up to Parliament House?” said old Brown, quite heedless of the clerk.

“Perhaps you will be good enough to explain what the man wants,” said the clerk, addressing Felise.

A little confused by the unfamiliar surroundings, Felise tried to make them understand. The clerk helped her by cross-questioning, and at last it was clear that the application was for permission for the aged labourer to end his days in his cottage.

“He has made such a capital garden,” said Felise, able to speak now. “He will never be able to live away from his garden. Could you not let him stay, Mr. Cornleigh? He worked for your grandfather and for your father⁠—he really has been a faithful old servant, and he cannot have much longer to live. It is not a great thing to grant. Do, please, think how very old and helpless he is!”

The Squire glanced at her⁠—the excitement had flushed her cheek; she was radiantly beautiful⁠—and as quickly looked down again.

“It is clearly a matter for Mr. Godwin,” said the clerk.

“Evidently it is a matter for Godwin,” said the Squire, who always repeated what his advisers had said for him.

“No, no,” said Felise quickly. “Do, please, decide this one little thing yourself, Mr. Cornleigh.”

The Squire got up and went into the next room, followed by the clerk; they held a short consultation, and returned again.

“His worship will confer with his steward,” said the clerk.

“But⁠—but,” said Felise, “if you would look into it yourself, Mr. Cornleigh, you would see⁠—you would⁠—”

“Mr. Cornleigh will confer with his steward,” said the clerk, closing his book and rising.

“I⁠—I⁠—hum⁠—ah⁠—I mean,” said the Squire, as he too rose and began to retreat, glancing momentarily, “I will confer with my steward.”

“But doan’t you know I?” said old Abner, as the Squire turned his back. “Doan’t you know I? Bless ’ee, I bought pegs of yer grandfeyther!”

Squire and clerk were gone together; old Abner became very indignant.

“Why didn’t he speak to I?” he grumbled. “I knowed his grandfeyther. Why doan’t he do summat hisself? A bean’t half the man his grandfeyther wur.”

Felise could not persuade him to come away till the sergeant of police approached, and taking the old man by the arm quietly led him downstairs, and out into the roadway. There he went quietly with her, still muttering to himself about the Squire’s “grandfeyther.” She drove him home, and left him at the cottage.

Mr. Goring was not in the least surprised at the failure of the attempt; for they considered it a failure since the Squire was going to consult with Mr. Godwin.

Mary Shaw was very dull and downhearted when she heard about it; she had had such hopes in her mistress, believing that her beauty would be sure to carry the day.

In his cottage old Abner was complaining to his wife of Felise’s interference and bad management. He was sure he should have got on all right if he had seen the Squire by himself, but she spoilt everything. “Hur would keep talking,” he said. “Hur kept on talk, talk, talk.” The truth being that he could say nothing for himself, and Felise had explained everything.

Ingratitude is the nature of old Abner’s race; so many hundred years of hard poverty and petty oppression have crushed out the better feelings, especially in the aged. For one act of kindness in eighty years, why should they feel grateful?

Still the fact remains that they are ungrateful, speaking ill of those who wish them well, incapable of understanding goodness of heart; the fact remains and renders them uninteresting and repellent, so that sympathy cannot attach itself to them. A little experience of their ways is sufficient to destroy the interest of the kindest-hearted.