II

Felise was not long reaching home, and Abner came to take charge of the pony. She asked him to meet her that evening at seven o’clock at Mr. Godwin’s, just outside in the path, and not to mention to anyone that he was going there. The good-natured, loyal fellow promised to do so; it was indeed a pleasure to him to do anything for her.

Upstairs in her room Felise printed a few words with pen and ink on a slip of notepaper, so that the writer could not be guessed from the handwriting; and then waited till seven, which hour she had chosen because Abner would have finished his work.

He was waiting for her just outside Godwin’s premises, ready to do her bidding, let it be what it might.

“Here is the money,” said Felise, handing a bag heavy with gold to Robert Godwin in the little side parlour to which he had conducted her.

They were alone. Robert counted it methodically, and began to write a receipt.

“Do not put my name in the receipt,” said Felise, a sudden thought occurring to her.

Robert did as he was bid, and omitted the name. The receipt simply ran, “Received £70 for the bay horse, Ruy. — Robert Godwin.”

“Now give me the horse,” said she, taking up the paper.

“Tonight? I will have him groomed and sent over⁠—”

“No, no⁠—now. Come,” rising and going to the door.

Robert could not refuse. He walked as slowly as he could, wishing to make her stay as long as possible, for she came and went like the wind. Felise with her own hand took Ruy’s halter⁠—he was nothing loth to come with her, remembering the apples⁠—and led him towards the gate.

“But you will permit me to help you; let me go with you⁠—”

“There is no need; I have Abner waiting outside.”

Robert Godwin’s face at the name became black as night; he said not another word, but merely accompanied her to the gate, and raised his hat in silence.

Felise did not relinquish her hold of the halter, though Abner immediately joined her, till a turn of the lane hid them from Robert Godwin’s view.

“Abner,” said Felise, stopping, “I think⁠—I believe you would be true to me.”

“That indeed I would, miss!” His blue eyes lit up, and his countenance grew for the moment handsome with earnestness.

“I want you to do something for me, and not to tell a single person⁠—not one, mind⁠—not even your sweetheart.”

Abner grew red⁠—Felise did not know whether he had or had not a sweetheart. His face looked guilty.

“I won’t tell nobody⁠—not a word, miss; bless you, you may be sure of I.”

“I believe I may.” She took the receipt for Ruy, and doubled it up inside the slip of paper with the printed message in the form of a note, and gave it to Abner.

“I want you to take this horse over to the Manor House, and leave him in Mr. Barnard’s stables; and then go up to the house and see him⁠—wait till you do see him⁠—and give him the note, and come away without a word. Don’t answer a single question; if he asks any, if anyone asks any⁠—say⁠—let me see⁠—say⁠—say, another man gave you sixpence to bring the horse because he was tired. On the road you met him, you know, by chance, and so you don’t know anything.”

“All right, miss; I’ll tell ’em a tale⁠—never fear.”

“And then I shall want to know if you have done it; but I don’t want you to call at our house⁠—ah! what is that tune you are always whistling?”

“ ‘Jump Into the Wagon’?”

“Yes, ‘Phyllis Dear’⁠—that’s it. Now, when you come back, stop outside our gate and whistle it as hard as you can, and I shall understand.”

“So I will.”

“I shall have two shillings on Saturday, and you shall have them.”

“No, miss; if you please, I don’t want no money⁠—you have a-been terrable good to our folk.”

“But you shall have the two shillings.”

“Bless you, miss, sixpence will be aplenty for such a little job as this here!”

“Well, well! wait till Saturday,” said Felise, determined he should have the two shillings all the same. “Now, you’re sure you quite understand?”

“I understands; all right, miss; I shall do it famous.” He touched his cap and started.

Felise watched him and Ruy till they turned the corner, and then returned home. She found Mr. Goring in some anxiety about Mary Shaw, who had had a fainting-fit and was lying on the sofa. Felise ran to her side and found poor Mary, usually red as a peony, as white as a sheet; she had fainted all at once as she was running in from the garden, hearing Mr. Goring call.

“And you fell upstairs yesterday.”

“That’s lucky,” said Mary, with a faint smile.

“And you’re always complaining of a pain in your side.”

“It’s nothing⁠—it’s the heat⁠—and I ate too many cherries.”

“Well, if it happens again you must see the doctor.”

At which terrible word Mary burst into tears.

“Oh, don’t you let I see the doctor⁠—now don’t you! I should die of fright, I knows I should; you don’t mean that now⁠—do you, now? Say as you don’t mean it. I can’t abear no doctors.”

To pacify her, for she was trembling all over, Felise promised that the doctor should not be called in unless it was a very bad case indeed.

Quite suddenly Mary sat up, and declared she felt as well as ever; and certainly her colour began to return, and she laughed at her tumbling down.

“I fell⁠—whop! like a sack out of window⁠—like them sacks the miller pitches out of his window into a cart.”

In ten minutes she was humming merrily as she went about the house. But these little incidents made Felise fear that the girl⁠—to whom she was much attached⁠—had overgrown herself, and that in spite of her stoutness and rosiness she was not really very strong. She was remarkably timid, but all cottage folk (and indeed most country people) dislike the idea of a doctor because they seldom resort to one except in serious illness, and the doctor is associated with great troubles.

After awhile Abner reflected that the horse might as well carry him, and by the help of a gate got on Ruy’s back, and so arrived very pleasantly at the Manor House. There was but one labourer about, who showed him the stable, and whose questions he easily parried. He had, however, to wait some time for Martial, and spoke to him at last at the porch; Martial, who was not in a good-humour, thrust the note in his pocket on hearing no answer was expected, and thought no more about it, supposing it to be some trifling business. Some hours consequently elapsed before he opened it; he remembered it just as he was about to retire.

The note contained the printed message: “One who thinks of you returns you your favourite,” and the receipt for Ruy, £70, signed Robert Godwin.

Martial rushed to the stable, and there found his favourite comfortably munching in his old stall. His surprise and delight were about equal. He stayed with Ruy a long time, wondering who it could have been who had made him this magnificent present. Young as he was, it was years now since he had received the least kindness from anyone; the mercenary manner in which the old merchant had broken off the engagement with Rosa on finding out his poverty was not calculated to increase his faith in the generosity of the world generally.

The note itself gave him no clue; the letters might have been printed by a man or woman⁠—indeed, by a child; the watermark, as he held the strip up to the lantern, was partly visible, but the same watermark is impressed on tons of paper. From the labourer who had received the horse not the slightest information could be obtained, and the messenger who had brought him had disappeared hours ago. It was dark when the man gave him the note, and he would not know him again; indeed, he had taken no notice of him whatever.

Robert Godwin could tell him, no doubt; but Martial instantly decided that Robert Godwin would shut his lips and absolutely refuse. He knew the man too well. It could only have been⁠—it must have been one or other of those wealthy London friends who had petted him in boyhood, and deserted him when of an age to appreciate assistance. They had not then forgotten him.

With this conclusion Martial returned to bed, but woke up in the night with the sudden thought that it was Rosa. She had plenty of money; she knew how fond he was of Ruy; she had bought him back. He jumped up and partly dressed; he was so annoyed at the thought that he was ready to return Ruy that very night to Godwin. It would look rather absurd riding over to Godwin’s at three in the morning, so he decided to wait till breakfast. By breakfast-time, after a look at Ruy and at the downs they had so often breasted together, his attachment for the horse conquered his pride; he could not send him away.

His cousins had of course heard of the mysterious return of Ruy, and plied him with questions. Martial did not show them the note, but could not conceal the facts. “It was Rosa, of course,” they said. “What a dear good girl she is, and what a time it is since we have seen her! We must go and call on her.”

Martial left the room in anger. He saddled Ruy; yet even the freshness and beauty of the morning, and the pleasure of riding his favourite once more, could not overcome the bitterness of the thought that he owed that delight to Rosa. So entirely had his nature turned against the woman he once adored.

“Wait for the Wagon” echoed in the stillness of the night round the gables of Beechknoll⁠—the jolly old tune, mellow and loud. Three times Abner whistled it, and Felise, listening in her chamber, knew that Martial had received the horse. Someone else heard the tune too; a window was gently opened, and a low voice called:

“Good night, Ab.”

“Night, you,” said Abner, stumping on down the road.