V

“If I was to tell you something now,” said Mary Shaw, as she brushed Felise’s hair one morning, “should you be very angry?” blushing scarlet all over her neck, and even partly up her forehead as she spoke.

“You’ve a sweetheart,” said Felise, laughing at the blush which she saw reflected in the mirror. “I can see it in your face.”

“Well, perhaps,” said Mary; and, encouraged by her mistress’s smile, went on to tell her by little and little of her engagement to Abner.

“How sly you have been!” said Felise; “and no one ever suspected you.”

“I didn’t know how you would like it,” pleaded Mary; and, the confession over, went on to explain the trouble they were in, and to beg Felise’s help.

If Abner’s aged parents were turned out of the cottage there would be no possibility of Mary’s marriage with Abner, for he would have no home to give her.

A separate home was out of the question⁠—it could not be got; the utmost they (or other village lovers) could expect was to live with the parents of bride or bridegroom. At Abner’s home there was room; at Mary Shaw’s there was no room. The Shaw cottage was very small, and fully occupied by her own parents, an aged uncle who had a sort of right to reside with the family, and a crippled cousin (a girl). No place could be found for a fresh couple.

Once old Abner and his wife were turned out of doors, and their hope of future union dissolved altogether. There was no other home for them. Abner might get a bed somewhere, or he could sleep in a tallet (the room over a stable), but cottage there would be none for wife or children.

So bitterly does the scarcity of homes weigh on the labouring class in the country⁠—a scarcity consequent upon the fact that almost all existing cottages belong to the landowners. Labourers are not able to erect houses for themselves, chiefly because they cannot get the land for the purpose. The few square yards necessary to put a cottage on are inaccessible, no one will sell them such a plot, most waste places have long since been claimed, and squatters are warned off those that remain.

The policy of landowners (or landowners’ agents) has for many years been directed to keep down the population, or rather so to manage it as to retain control over it. There has been a strong current setting against the small proprietor, who has not been permitted to come into existence. No man has been allowed to settle in a parish unless under the immediate thumb of the landowner or his tenants.

Now Abner was in ill-favour with the steward, and there was no chance for him.

Already solicitous enough for the poor old man and his wife, Felise became still more anxious when she understood how Mary’s future was concerned. She could not think what to do; she had already applied to Robert Godwin, and been firmly, almost rudely denied.

Mary now came to the pith of her communication. Old Abner Brown was under the impression that if he could but see the Squire in person, he should succeed. The old man dwelt much upon the familiar intercourse he had held with the Squire’s grandfather in the olden times, when the distinction between the cottage and the mansion was not so sharply drawn.

He had had small “deals” with the old Squire; he had run beside the pony when the present Squire’s father was learning to ride; he had worked half a century ago in the gardens attached to the mansion at Maasbury. If he could but see “t’Squire” face to face and speak with him, he felt sure he should not be turned out of his cottage and garden.

To Felise, unlearned in the ways of the world, this seemed reasonable, and she went at once to Mr. Goring, to ask him how best they could obtain an audience of “t’Squire.”

Mr. Goring, in snowy shirtsleeves, was sitting under his favourite russet apple-tree, taking his luncheon, which consisted of fruit, bread, and a little Burgundy in a tall old glass. From that spot there was a pleasant glimpse⁠—not a view⁠—a glimpse of the meadows which came up to the orchard fence.

He laughed at the idea of “t’Squire” taking into account the services old Abner had rendered to his grandfather. Besides, he would be in London, as Parliament was sitting⁠—no, on second thoughts, he remembered Cornleigh Cornleigh, Esq., was at home pending some political proceedings in contemplation, of which more presently. The man was at home, and could be seen every Wednesday⁠—this was Wednesday⁠—about noon in the justice-room at The House.

He sat there when at home to administer the law upon rogues and vagabonds⁠—such offences as could be dealt with by one magistrate; the petty sessions being held once a fortnight. It would be easy to see him there, and old Abner no doubt could make his application as soon as the rogues were disposed of; but it was perfectly useless.

Felise wished to try⁠—Mr. Goring would not say he did not mind her trying, and yet he did not say she should not. In truth, any application to such a person was distasteful to him; yet there was the incontrovertible fact of his being in authority, and no one else could save poor old Abner from his doom. While Goring hesitated, Felise ran and ordered the pony-carriage, and sent Shaw down to tell the old man she would call for him in ten minutes.

Mr. Goring sat by his luncheon, which was now unheeded, and heard the pony-carriage go rattling down the road. The glass of Burgundy was untouched⁠—a wasp came to the fruit upon his plate.

This was one of the bitter moments of his life, bringing home to him his impotence to do good. Had he bustled about in the world, perhaps by this time he would have made sufficient money to enable him to carry out his wishes. How easily a cottage might have been built had he but had a hundred and fifty pounds at his disposal!

He had neglected to struggle with the world, and the world was his master. He had retired out of the dust of the battle, weary of the selfishness, the sham, and cant. As a result, in the midst of his peaceful trees, he was powerless. He had not even made political capital of his views, and had no circle of friends to back him up.

If anyone elects to dwell with himself alone in a garden planted with his own trees, and a mind stocked with his own ideas, he must suffer this deprivation.

It was not the first time he had felt this; but he thought he had shut out the world behind his trees, and behind his own advancing years. Now he found he had not done so.

Meditating thus the wine became tasteless, the fruit sour; his trees appeared but timber, the meadow only grass⁠—the idea, the thought, the fancy was gone from all. Had he then wasted upon these the mind that should have been devoted to his fellow-creatures?

One thing he determined upon; he would no longer remain silent. He would make the wants and the sufferings of these poor people known; he would appeal to old friends whose letters had ceased to reach him these twenty years; he would stir, and act, and speak as well as dream among his flowers and trees.