XX

By the old barn under one of the Spanish chestnut-trees, Felise sat down to wait for Martial. She was clad in black⁠—mourning for Mary Shaw. The thickness of the chestnut spray did not permit a single ray of the morning sun to reach her, as the beech had done. No rounded dot of sunshine lit up the black shadow of her dress under the green boughs. The swallows were still about the barn, as they had been when she came with her rod along the brook. They would never quite leave it till they flew to warmer lands; even in October they would rest in a row on the ridge, and twitter of their coming journey. But the songs in the wood hard-by were silent, the thrush and the blackbird had ceased, and the cuckoo had long been gone. There was no music of sweet birds’ throats as dry August stooped under her sheaves.

The prickly green fruit of the chestnuts was visible among the boughs, and in the hedge by the copse the red berries of the bryony clustered thickly. Pouting at the top, the thistles which always strew the sward by a wood were ready to pour forth a shower of thistledown. Two large dragonflies shot to and fro, excited into swiftest motion by the heat. Once a green and golden woodpecker passed, sweeping downwards in his flight almost to the ground, and rising again to the height of the trees.

From afar came the hum of a threshing-machine, winnowing out the fresh corn from the ear. A hum that sank to a mournful note and rose again⁠—a curve of sound. There is something inarticulately human in the cry of the threshing-machine. Wheat and bread⁠—labour and life⁠—the past of the sowing, the future of the uncertain autumn, hazy and deepening into the gloom of winter. In the glow, and light, and heat of today, forget not that the leaves shall fall and the stubble be beaten by the rains and whitened by the snow; yet hope on, because the sunlight and the flowers shall assuredly succeed again. Inarticulately expressing the meaning of the years and the rise and fall of time, the low hum stretches itself across the wide fields of grain.

The sparrows that had chattered so loudly round the eaves of the barn had gone out into the wheat. The swallows came at intervals and again soared into the air. Only the two dragonflies remained, rushing to and fro.

Martial had told her all, manfully laying bare the recesses of his heart; warned thereto by his experience of the mill-pool, which told him not to trifle longer with the shadow on the dial. While we linger⁠—while we stay⁠—the shadow slips from the edge of the disk into universal night.

“He cannot love me;” this was the burden of her thoughts. “He cannot love me.”

He could admire her, he could worship her beauty, he could appreciate her worth, he could value her love, he could and would labour for her with all his powers, but he could not love.

He had loved another woman before her, and the spring of love was dry.

A woman will be able to understand the bitterness of this to her⁠—he had loved another, therefore he could not love her.

A creaking of wagon-wheels went by in the narrow lane, it was a load of yellow sheaves, heavily jolting over the ruts, crushing the rushes that had grown in the way, the sheaves brushing against the wild clematis still flowering high up the bushes. She could see the top of the load above the hawthorn and hazel, slowly ascending the hill by the wood.

“He cannot love me.”

He was hers, and yet he was not hers.

Thus Rosa was in part avenged, and returned bitterness for bitterness to the heart of her rival. Though now forsaken, she had received the first-fruits of love, and they could not be given to another. If Felise’s existence was cruel to Rosa, so now Rosa’s existence was cruel to Felise⁠—yet not so cruel.

For with a deep sigh Felise became content.

“It is better,” she said⁠—“it is better than not to have him at all. Had that been so, if I could not have had him, then it would have been best that the deep sea should cover me.”

To the bitter jealousy of his first love given to another, she became superior, and overcame the sting and venom of the thought.

It mattered not⁠—he was Martial⁠—he was hers.

But this was not all that her love had overcome. Rumours had been spread abroad since Mary Shaw’s death, of a kind which might have easily caused years of misunderstanding, might even have changed the course of their lives, had it not been for the steadfastness of Felise.

There was a scandal in the hamlet, that the child of Mary Shaw could claim another parent than the common labourer, Abner Brown. A gentleman had been seen to meet her clandestinely. Miller Bond had done this mischief unwittingly. At the inquest they cross-questioned and worried him; they ascertained that Abner was the last person seen with her, and also that another person⁠—Martial Barnard⁠—had frequently met her there. The jury returned a verdict of suicide, but immediately afterwards Abner was arrested by the police on suspicion of murder, and put in the cell at Maasbury.

No one had seen Mary leap in. She had admitted herself on her deathbed that she did so, but that might be to shield Abner. At all events he would have to go before the magistrates and explain where he was when she did it. Abner said he had walked down into the road on quitting Mary, and heard nothing of the event till hours afterwards. He had left her to go home by herself in the same manner scores of times. Still he was in the cell at Maasbury.

The official theory was very simple and suggestive. They said, “Here is a poor girl who has a gentleman lover and a labourer lover. It is easy to see that the common labourer would be jealous of the gentleman. On this fateful evening the gentleman is said to have come after the labourer had left. But we are not bound to believe this; the gentleman may have been there first⁠—the labourer may have seen him. Certainly the miller declares the labourer went away; but then he owns he did not look any longer, so that it is possible the labourer may have returned and thrown her in. Miller Bond states he heard a cry, showing the girl’s terror as Abner seized her. These conjectures are sufficient to justify the committal of Abner Brown to await examination. As for the dying admissions of the girl, they are much lessened in value by the extraordinary statement she also made, and which cannot be taken into consideration for a moment. A girl who could say such a thing cannot be believed even on her deathbed.”

So Abner went to the cell at Maasbury, and scandal was very rife at the hamlet, waxing bigger every hour. Miller Bond was in no small degree responsible for this. His confused statements could so easily be twisted to their purpose by malignant minds. In his heart he was anxious above all others to please Felise; as a fact he did or said exactly what was most calculated to give her pain.

The hamlet would not believe Abner, and would not believe the dead; it fastened eagerly on a scandal which implicated a gentleman. It was not without foundation, because Martial could not publicly explain why he had met Mary Shaw.

Robert Godwin saw in these circumstances, which had so suddenly arisen, a means of gratifying the reflex action in his mind, which prompted him to injure the very person he loved. At his suggestion the police acted in securing Abner; he pointed out the possibility of Abner’s guilt; without much possibility a hint from such a quarter was sufficient. This was a savage cut at the unfortunate labourer, and at the same time an unpleasant incident for Mr. Goring.

But it was Felise whom he desired to reach. The hamlet gossips gladly carried the tale to Beechknoll. That the shaft might go home Robert Godwin himself came over. He found Mr. Goring in the garden, and in despite of the other’s plainspoken desire to avoid him, forced him to hear the story. That Martial, while paying attentions to Miss Goring, had taken an unmanly advantage of this poor girl. Goring, as usual, was working in the garden when Robert would not be shaken off.

“The whole story is an abominable falsehood,” said Mr. Goring. “Mr. Barnard is incapable of such a thing. I know the real reason for the meetings between them. I must really decline, Mr. Godwin, to discuss the matter further with you.”

“Barnard will have to tell the truth before the magistrates,” said Godwin, not in the least abashed. “This is not the first discreditable transaction in which he has been engaged. He promised marriage to Miss Rosa Wood, and jilted her. He has wasted his substance and that of his cousins⁠—he is a spendthrift and a scoundrel!”

“Sir, I request you to quit my premises!”

“Sir, your name, and that of your niece, will figure largely in the public investigation.”

“Investigation! I bid you beware of investigation. The world knows already why Mary Shaw committed suicide.”

“I dare anyone to repeat that statement; they shall be prosecuted for slander.”

“I repeat the statement. Mary Shaw committed suicide because she knew that her aged father and mother, and all her family, would be expelled from their cottage if her disgrace became known. The poor girl died to save their home for them.”

“Most infamous!⁠—you shall certainly be prosecuted for slander.”

“Most infamous, certainly⁠—I cast the word in your teeth, Mr. Godwin. I despise you. You left this poor girl no refuge. You ordered her lover’s parents to quit their home⁠—there was no possibility of their marriage. She was aware of the penalty if she was not married. Rather than see her aged parents turned into the road⁠—to starve or end their broken days in the workhouse⁠—she did this dreadful thing-.”

“You shall be served for slander immediately.”

“By all means let me be served⁠—I desire nothing better. So much the quicker will your reign come to an end. And now, quit my premises!”

Having no further threat or disclosure to make, Godwin at last retired, so far discomfited.

Martial had acquainted Felise and Mr. Goring with every circumstance the instant after the inquest. Consequently Godwin could make no impression; yet, as he retired discomfited and burning with anger, he reflected that at least he had given form, shape, and substance to an indefinite rumour. He had delivered it at his opponent’s gates, and thrust it home.

Far less causes have led to lifelong separations.

Deeply hurt by poor Mary’s untimely death, Felise could not do enough to satisfy herself for the infant at the mill. She engaged a nurse for it, and saw that every necessity was supplied.

“If she had only told me,” Felise repeated; “if she had only told me, all would then have been prevented.”

“I would have sold my land but that they should have had a home,” said Mr. Goring. “I blame Abner greatly. He should have told me. But we were all blind⁠—we should have guessed. Mary could hardly walk upstairs sometimes⁠—and her fainting-fit. Poor child!⁠—poor child!”

The shock of Mary’s death, the imputations against Martial, the arrest of Abner, came very heavily upon Felise. Martial she never doubted for an instant; yet, certain of his innocence as she was, these envenomed shafts always leave a wound. An unwonted gloom fell upon her. The shadow had grown deep and dark upon the dial.

Her love carried her straight past the pitfall of doubt which had been opened beside her path. Her love shone the brighter and the steadier as she overcame. But she had known sorrow.

Again Rosa was avenged⁠—her rival had known sorrow.

A lesser love might have doubted, might have made inquiries; words might have been spoken never to be forgotten. But this great heart was untouched. Had these insinuations been true, and had she known them to be true, it would have made no difference. No matter what he had done, he would still have been hers. But her glory was that she had not doubted.

Still she had known sorrow, and her head drooped as she waited under the Spanish chestnut. There were no songs in the copse now.

“He cannot love me,” she thought. “He is mine, but he cannot love me.”

Once, gazing into the clear water of the trout-pool and seeing her own face reflected, she had triumphantly believed in her power to make him love her. She had failed.

Opposite to her the interior of the barn opened wide and gaunt where the great doors had formerly been. Diffused light lit the interior immediately opposite; farther in there was shadow in the summer day. Burnt by sun and beaten by rain, the red tiles of the broad roof, coated with orange moss, glowed under the fervent heat of the August morning. The surface of the roof seemed to fluctuate, as if the colour came and went⁠—now deep, now paler, red-orange alight with sunbeams. Almost touching it, the boughs of the other chestnut massed their cool green against the tiles. Underneath was the shadow of the vast cavern-like interior.

Since Martial had returned and told her all, it seemed as if she could not part from him. Perhaps the sudden loss of Mary had unconsciously rendered her anxious⁠—snatched away without warning; perhaps she feared for him too, so that, though he came every day, yet she dreaded the moment of parting. She had got into the habit of walking with him as far as the old barn on his way home in the evening, and of coming as far as that to meet him in the morning.

As she sat opposite the barn suddenly she looked up⁠—some slight movement in the cavern-like interior had caught her eye; but, on gazing steadily, she could not see anything. It must have been fancy. She recollected the idle tale that the barn was haunted, only to accuse herself of nervousness. Besides, it was broad daylight.

Immediately afterwards the sound of a shot in the copse startled her; but she smiled, knowing who had fired. Three minutes afterwards Martial came towards her, carrying his little oval-bore rook and rabbit rifle. It was too early for game, but the young rabbits were now ready.

They did not sit down, but walked on towards Beechknoll, past the still elms of the meadows, past the gnarled oaks, by the copses, by the green flags of the brook, pausing now and then in the shade for those glances which speak so much silently. Be sure she did not think the less of him because he had risked his life in the mill-pool. Natural enough that she should exalt his deed into heroism. When we think so highly of another, it seems impossible but that they must in some degree incline to our wishes. We transfer our feelings to them.

In the dreamy woodlands, by the running brook, it seemed to her that by-and-by surely he must love her.