Part 2, Chapter VI.“As I went down to the water-side,None but my foe to be my guide,None but my foe to be my guide.”Mrs Waynflete said nothing about the effects of her fall on the bridge, but she did not quite recover from the shock of it; and, accidental as it had been, she knew quite well that it would not have happened if her tread had been as steady and her sight as clear as had been the case six months before. She had one or two other little slips and escapes, and she said to herself that they were “warnings.”People often know their own condition much better than is supposed, or, than others do, and Mrs Waynflete knew as well as any doctor could have told her that her hour was coming. She was very glad that no one else appeared to suspect the fact. She did not like sympathy, and even yet she did not feel herself to require support. But she thought much within herself. Those two wills lay heavy on her mind, and so did Guy’s criticisms on the management of the mills. She hated to acknowledge as much; but she was really too clever and too experienced a woman not to know that there was more than a possibility of his being right. She had known too much of the books and accounts in past days not to know that of late she had not known them so well. Moreover, her first distaste to Waynflete continued. She did not get accustomed to the bed that she had to sleep in, nor to the chair she had to sit on. She scorned the young vicar, Mr Clifton. She even felt that she would have liked to have a talk with old Mr Whitman of Ingleby, and perhaps let him read her a chapter, though she never had consulted him in her life on any matter, spiritual or temporal. And on one point, in these autumn days, spent in this unfamiliar ancestral home, she changed her mind. She had always meant to be buried at Waynflete, though she had never chosen to live there; but, now, she resolved that she would lie by her husband’s side, in Ingleby churchyard. All her life had been spent at Ingleby; she had been born there, in the poor farmhouse which she had so despised. “The lads,” the male heirs, her brother’s descendants, might make their graves among the old Waynfletes if they liked. As she had dimly felt at first, the object of a life’s labour is not so dear as the labour itself; and whenever the charms of Waynflete were discussed, Margaret felt that she was an Ingleby woman. She was as constant to the facts of her life as she had been to the idea that had dominated it.Under the influence of these feelings, she one day sat down, and wrote to Guy a note in which she told more of the truth than she had admitted to those living in the house with her.“Waynflete Hall.“My dear Guy,—“I took your remarks as to the management of the business very much amiss, as it has always been my way to follow my own judgment, not finding that of other people any improvement on it. But I perceive that it is your right to have your say, and I wish to hear it. I am an old woman, and I shall not have my hand on things much longer. I feel my time is coming, and I would not wish to leave injustice behind me. So I desire that you come over here at once without delay, and put before me what you have got to say, and satisfy my mind on the points that lie between us. Besides, my dear, I wish to have you both here with me.“Your loving aunt,—“Margaret Waynflete.”When Guy received this letter by the second post, on the day that Staunton went to Moorhead, the last sentence more than all the rest made him feel that he must start at once for Waynflete; manifestly the note had been delayed, or he would have got it in the morning. As it was, he could not reach Kirk Hinton till four o’clock.He was touched and a good deal alarmed, not so much at the summons as at the inclination to listen to him, and hurriedly putting his papers together, set off, and at Ingleby station sent a telegram to Godfrey, since his old aunt disliked receiving them, saying briefly—“Send trap without fail to meet the four train at Kirk Hinton.”And then, moved partly by a desire to explain himself to Cuthbert, and partly by a sudden strange impulse to tell Florella what he was doing, he despatched the other to Moorhead. Spite of this impulse, he thought little of his dread of Waynflete, as he pursued his journey by train, and waited at the junction for that which was to take him to Kirk Hinton. He was very full of what he had to say to his aunt, and much moved at the tone of her summons.As the train stopped at Kirk Hinton, the station-master hurried up.“Mr Waynflete! Have you had a telegram from Waynflete Hall?”“No; what’s the matter?”“We despatched one, sir, an hour ago, to say that Mrs Waynflete had had an accident this morning. Here’s a copy, sir.”“A telegram? What was it?”“Aunt Waynflete has had a bad fall. Come. From Mrs Palmer to Guy Waynflete.”Guy stood still for a moment, and caught his breath.“They expect me,” he said. “Is the trap here?”“No, sir; nothing’s here. We sent on your telegram this morning. The lad that brought this one said he gave it to Mr Godfrey.”“I must go on,” said Guy. “Send my things as soon as you can. I suppose the field way is the quickest?”“Yes, sir, by a matter of two miles. The evening’s very soft—we’ll be having a wet night. Good evening, sir. Keep on by the stiles. And I hope ye’ll not get there too late.”The words struck on Guy’s ears, as he hurried down the hill in the dismal light of the October afternoon. When Godfrey, also troubled in spirit, had been forced to take this rough and dreary walk, its discomforts had added to his sense of anger and injury, but Guy hardly heeded them, though he knew that the six miles up and down the sharp edges of Flete Dale was almost more than he could manage without breaking down, especially as the sudden summons and alarming news had been a bad preparation for extra exertion.“Too late!” If he did not reach his old aunt in time to satisfy her, if not about his view of the business, at least about himself, it would be a bitter hour for him indeed. If it was possible—if he could be satisfactory? Thoughts, hitherto latent, rose up so strong and full within him that he felt as if he had received a sudden increase of reasoning power, in spite of the fatigue against which he could hardly struggle.There was his bad health to begin with. How could he ever satisfy any one, any more than that Guy Waynflete whose face, whose constitution, and doubtless whose soul he inherited? That Guy whodrank? Who ever overcame that impulse, which seemed no more moral or immoral than the palpitation of his heart?Probably, after all, the cynical common-sense view of that Guy’s miserable failure was the true one. The Dragon, the little public-house which must be passed close by the river might account for it better than highwayman or ghost. Perhaps he, too, had been tired and ill, and had stopped there to get strength to go on—and had not gone on in time. And the Dragon was there still in the same place. The turn to it must still be passed on the way to the bridge.And as for the ghost? Was that, too, an hereditary affection of the nerves, a monomania; in fact, just that dislocation of the brain which made both him and his ancestor irresponsible for their actions, a sign that showed that they were not free agents, that the dreadful and degrading fate that had overtaken his namesake was equally inevitable for himself? Yes. The Being that haunted him and controlled him was nothing but Himself, and his “objectivity” only the chimera of an abnormal brain. He looked, and behold there was nothing, no voice, nor any to answer.This awful conviction was more terrible to Guy than any haunting ancestral spirit, than any tempting fiend. It was possible to fight with “principalities and powers, rulers of darkness;” but to wait helpless for the inevitable outcome of hisSelf, to see drunkenness, degradation and madness unroll before him—to know, not that he would lose his soul, but that he had no soul to lose; no foe to fight with—no friend to help.For, if this dreadful sense of an evil presence within him which grew and darkened as he came down the rough field to the river’s side, was only a bogie of his imagination, then no heavenly presence could be real either, if the only spiritual experience that he had ever, as he called it, “felt,” was a delusion, he could not believe that any other could be real.But, in the horror of these thoughts, he passed the turn that would have led him to the respite and relief of the Dragon public, and never knew the moment when he did so. He came to the riverside. The water was deep enough here for drowning, for making an end both of the past and of the future, a fit end for the fool who lived in dread of his own fancy, and feared—himself. Well, he was not frightened now, only desperate, which was a worse thing.What was this, that mingled with, that almost lightened his formless horror? It was the old familiar panic that he knew so well; the physical terror that was wont to seize upon him unawares. It did not surprise him that there, on the centre of the crazy bridge, stood, visible to his eye, the “counterfeit presentment” of the terror that he felt within, the ghostly image of his ancestor and of himself. He sank down on his knees, he could not stand, or he must have turned and fled. The form was shadowy, but the awful, hopeless, evil eyes were clear as if they looked close into his own, much clearer, as he knew, than mortal eyes could have been, so far off, in so dim a light. He and his Double looked at each other. Guy was perfectly conscious, wide awake, alive all through. He fell forward on the grass, and hid his face, but the companion Presence was not to be so shut out. “Feeling,” as he had said, was worse than seeing. He looked up again.“Will he come here, if I don’t go there?”And, suddenly, he knew thathe had a choice. Through his agony of nerve and bewilderment of brain this conviction shot like an arrow.“I shall fall, or he’ll drown me. I can never pass him; butI can try.”He staggered up on to his feet. His soul was set on edge by the jarring contact of this thing of evil, to draw near, instead of to fly, was more than flesh and blood could bear. He broke into a wild, mad fit of laughter—laughter that echoed, till he did not know which laughed, himself or his Double. They seemed to mock and to defy each other.“Myself or my devil!” shouted the living Guy. “If you kill me, or damn me, you shall not stop me! Here or there—within or without. Come with me if you choose, I’ll not be too late!”He staggered forward, his head swam, his eyes grew dizzy, his Double swayed before him, he knew not which was plank and which whirling, rushing water. Then, in the murky, swinging mist, there was a sense of something still and blue, and, for an instant, Florella’s face.He sprang at it, and knew no more, till he found himself lying on the stones, half in and half out of the shallow water. The bridge was behind him, and, as he looked fearfully round, the haunting figure still before. Yes, before him on the hillside. It hadcome with him, while the angel face that had saved him was gone.He came to himself, as usual, with the sense of deathlike fainting and sinking, which he knew too well. It was almost dark, he had no idea of the time, or whether he had been moments or hours in crossing the bridge. He had no longer any thoughts, hardly any fears. No words of prayer had come through to him in the awful conflict; but now, as he tried to move and lift himself up, he instinctively murmured, over and over, like a lost child, “Oh God, help me to get up the hill.”End of Volume One.
“As I went down to the water-side,None but my foe to be my guide,None but my foe to be my guide.”
“As I went down to the water-side,None but my foe to be my guide,None but my foe to be my guide.”
Mrs Waynflete said nothing about the effects of her fall on the bridge, but she did not quite recover from the shock of it; and, accidental as it had been, she knew quite well that it would not have happened if her tread had been as steady and her sight as clear as had been the case six months before. She had one or two other little slips and escapes, and she said to herself that they were “warnings.”
People often know their own condition much better than is supposed, or, than others do, and Mrs Waynflete knew as well as any doctor could have told her that her hour was coming. She was very glad that no one else appeared to suspect the fact. She did not like sympathy, and even yet she did not feel herself to require support. But she thought much within herself. Those two wills lay heavy on her mind, and so did Guy’s criticisms on the management of the mills. She hated to acknowledge as much; but she was really too clever and too experienced a woman not to know that there was more than a possibility of his being right. She had known too much of the books and accounts in past days not to know that of late she had not known them so well. Moreover, her first distaste to Waynflete continued. She did not get accustomed to the bed that she had to sleep in, nor to the chair she had to sit on. She scorned the young vicar, Mr Clifton. She even felt that she would have liked to have a talk with old Mr Whitman of Ingleby, and perhaps let him read her a chapter, though she never had consulted him in her life on any matter, spiritual or temporal. And on one point, in these autumn days, spent in this unfamiliar ancestral home, she changed her mind. She had always meant to be buried at Waynflete, though she had never chosen to live there; but, now, she resolved that she would lie by her husband’s side, in Ingleby churchyard. All her life had been spent at Ingleby; she had been born there, in the poor farmhouse which she had so despised. “The lads,” the male heirs, her brother’s descendants, might make their graves among the old Waynfletes if they liked. As she had dimly felt at first, the object of a life’s labour is not so dear as the labour itself; and whenever the charms of Waynflete were discussed, Margaret felt that she was an Ingleby woman. She was as constant to the facts of her life as she had been to the idea that had dominated it.
Under the influence of these feelings, she one day sat down, and wrote to Guy a note in which she told more of the truth than she had admitted to those living in the house with her.
“Waynflete Hall.“My dear Guy,—“I took your remarks as to the management of the business very much amiss, as it has always been my way to follow my own judgment, not finding that of other people any improvement on it. But I perceive that it is your right to have your say, and I wish to hear it. I am an old woman, and I shall not have my hand on things much longer. I feel my time is coming, and I would not wish to leave injustice behind me. So I desire that you come over here at once without delay, and put before me what you have got to say, and satisfy my mind on the points that lie between us. Besides, my dear, I wish to have you both here with me.“Your loving aunt,—“Margaret Waynflete.”
“Waynflete Hall.“My dear Guy,—“I took your remarks as to the management of the business very much amiss, as it has always been my way to follow my own judgment, not finding that of other people any improvement on it. But I perceive that it is your right to have your say, and I wish to hear it. I am an old woman, and I shall not have my hand on things much longer. I feel my time is coming, and I would not wish to leave injustice behind me. So I desire that you come over here at once without delay, and put before me what you have got to say, and satisfy my mind on the points that lie between us. Besides, my dear, I wish to have you both here with me.“Your loving aunt,—“Margaret Waynflete.”
When Guy received this letter by the second post, on the day that Staunton went to Moorhead, the last sentence more than all the rest made him feel that he must start at once for Waynflete; manifestly the note had been delayed, or he would have got it in the morning. As it was, he could not reach Kirk Hinton till four o’clock.
He was touched and a good deal alarmed, not so much at the summons as at the inclination to listen to him, and hurriedly putting his papers together, set off, and at Ingleby station sent a telegram to Godfrey, since his old aunt disliked receiving them, saying briefly—
“Send trap without fail to meet the four train at Kirk Hinton.”
And then, moved partly by a desire to explain himself to Cuthbert, and partly by a sudden strange impulse to tell Florella what he was doing, he despatched the other to Moorhead. Spite of this impulse, he thought little of his dread of Waynflete, as he pursued his journey by train, and waited at the junction for that which was to take him to Kirk Hinton. He was very full of what he had to say to his aunt, and much moved at the tone of her summons.
As the train stopped at Kirk Hinton, the station-master hurried up.
“Mr Waynflete! Have you had a telegram from Waynflete Hall?”
“No; what’s the matter?”
“We despatched one, sir, an hour ago, to say that Mrs Waynflete had had an accident this morning. Here’s a copy, sir.”
“A telegram? What was it?”
“Aunt Waynflete has had a bad fall. Come. From Mrs Palmer to Guy Waynflete.”
“Aunt Waynflete has had a bad fall. Come. From Mrs Palmer to Guy Waynflete.”
Guy stood still for a moment, and caught his breath.
“They expect me,” he said. “Is the trap here?”
“No, sir; nothing’s here. We sent on your telegram this morning. The lad that brought this one said he gave it to Mr Godfrey.”
“I must go on,” said Guy. “Send my things as soon as you can. I suppose the field way is the quickest?”
“Yes, sir, by a matter of two miles. The evening’s very soft—we’ll be having a wet night. Good evening, sir. Keep on by the stiles. And I hope ye’ll not get there too late.”
The words struck on Guy’s ears, as he hurried down the hill in the dismal light of the October afternoon. When Godfrey, also troubled in spirit, had been forced to take this rough and dreary walk, its discomforts had added to his sense of anger and injury, but Guy hardly heeded them, though he knew that the six miles up and down the sharp edges of Flete Dale was almost more than he could manage without breaking down, especially as the sudden summons and alarming news had been a bad preparation for extra exertion.
“Too late!” If he did not reach his old aunt in time to satisfy her, if not about his view of the business, at least about himself, it would be a bitter hour for him indeed. If it was possible—if he could be satisfactory? Thoughts, hitherto latent, rose up so strong and full within him that he felt as if he had received a sudden increase of reasoning power, in spite of the fatigue against which he could hardly struggle.
There was his bad health to begin with. How could he ever satisfy any one, any more than that Guy Waynflete whose face, whose constitution, and doubtless whose soul he inherited? That Guy whodrank? Who ever overcame that impulse, which seemed no more moral or immoral than the palpitation of his heart?
Probably, after all, the cynical common-sense view of that Guy’s miserable failure was the true one. The Dragon, the little public-house which must be passed close by the river might account for it better than highwayman or ghost. Perhaps he, too, had been tired and ill, and had stopped there to get strength to go on—and had not gone on in time. And the Dragon was there still in the same place. The turn to it must still be passed on the way to the bridge.
And as for the ghost? Was that, too, an hereditary affection of the nerves, a monomania; in fact, just that dislocation of the brain which made both him and his ancestor irresponsible for their actions, a sign that showed that they were not free agents, that the dreadful and degrading fate that had overtaken his namesake was equally inevitable for himself? Yes. The Being that haunted him and controlled him was nothing but Himself, and his “objectivity” only the chimera of an abnormal brain. He looked, and behold there was nothing, no voice, nor any to answer.
This awful conviction was more terrible to Guy than any haunting ancestral spirit, than any tempting fiend. It was possible to fight with “principalities and powers, rulers of darkness;” but to wait helpless for the inevitable outcome of hisSelf, to see drunkenness, degradation and madness unroll before him—to know, not that he would lose his soul, but that he had no soul to lose; no foe to fight with—no friend to help.
For, if this dreadful sense of an evil presence within him which grew and darkened as he came down the rough field to the river’s side, was only a bogie of his imagination, then no heavenly presence could be real either, if the only spiritual experience that he had ever, as he called it, “felt,” was a delusion, he could not believe that any other could be real.
But, in the horror of these thoughts, he passed the turn that would have led him to the respite and relief of the Dragon public, and never knew the moment when he did so. He came to the riverside. The water was deep enough here for drowning, for making an end both of the past and of the future, a fit end for the fool who lived in dread of his own fancy, and feared—himself. Well, he was not frightened now, only desperate, which was a worse thing.
What was this, that mingled with, that almost lightened his formless horror? It was the old familiar panic that he knew so well; the physical terror that was wont to seize upon him unawares. It did not surprise him that there, on the centre of the crazy bridge, stood, visible to his eye, the “counterfeit presentment” of the terror that he felt within, the ghostly image of his ancestor and of himself. He sank down on his knees, he could not stand, or he must have turned and fled. The form was shadowy, but the awful, hopeless, evil eyes were clear as if they looked close into his own, much clearer, as he knew, than mortal eyes could have been, so far off, in so dim a light. He and his Double looked at each other. Guy was perfectly conscious, wide awake, alive all through. He fell forward on the grass, and hid his face, but the companion Presence was not to be so shut out. “Feeling,” as he had said, was worse than seeing. He looked up again.
“Will he come here, if I don’t go there?”
And, suddenly, he knew thathe had a choice. Through his agony of nerve and bewilderment of brain this conviction shot like an arrow.
“I shall fall, or he’ll drown me. I can never pass him; butI can try.”
He staggered up on to his feet. His soul was set on edge by the jarring contact of this thing of evil, to draw near, instead of to fly, was more than flesh and blood could bear. He broke into a wild, mad fit of laughter—laughter that echoed, till he did not know which laughed, himself or his Double. They seemed to mock and to defy each other.
“Myself or my devil!” shouted the living Guy. “If you kill me, or damn me, you shall not stop me! Here or there—within or without. Come with me if you choose, I’ll not be too late!”
He staggered forward, his head swam, his eyes grew dizzy, his Double swayed before him, he knew not which was plank and which whirling, rushing water. Then, in the murky, swinging mist, there was a sense of something still and blue, and, for an instant, Florella’s face.
He sprang at it, and knew no more, till he found himself lying on the stones, half in and half out of the shallow water. The bridge was behind him, and, as he looked fearfully round, the haunting figure still before. Yes, before him on the hillside. It hadcome with him, while the angel face that had saved him was gone.
He came to himself, as usual, with the sense of deathlike fainting and sinking, which he knew too well. It was almost dark, he had no idea of the time, or whether he had been moments or hours in crossing the bridge. He had no longer any thoughts, hardly any fears. No words of prayer had come through to him in the awful conflict; but now, as he tried to move and lift himself up, he instinctively murmured, over and over, like a lost child, “Oh God, help me to get up the hill.”
End of Volume One.
Part 2, Chapter VII.Waiting for Guy.Mrs Waynflete never told any one that she had sent for Guy. She did not know that he could not get a conveyance at Kirk Hinton, nor that her letter had been late for the post; and when he did not come by the first train in the morning, she grew angry and bitterly hurt with him, and still listened when he was long over-due. If she had never heard the galloping horseman before, she heard him then, the monotonous disappointing sound that began and grew near, and nearer, and never stopped; but, when it was nearest, went by and began again.She wandered up into her bedroom, and looked to see if the two wills were safe. Jeanie, who did many little offices, hardly enough appreciated, ran in with some flowers for her table.“Oh, aunt, I didn’t know you were there.”“Look here, Sarah Jane. You can do as you’re bid without asking questions. Look in this drawer. D’ye see this blue envelope, in the right-hand corner?”“Yes, aunt.”“Now, here’s the key in the pocket of my gown, and if I give you the word, you go and take it out, and unlock this drawer, and take that blue envelope, and drop it in the fire. Do you understand?”“Yes, aunt; but—”“Which envelope are you to take?”“The blue one, aunt—”“It’s well to be on the safe side—and I might be prevented—I might be prevented! So, if Guy comes—”“Guy, aunt? Do you expect Guy?”“I wrote to him, desiring him to come. But there! he’s taken no heed of my words. And the train’s in by this time.”“There’s another one, aunt, comes in at four, but—”Mrs Waynflete turned the key in the drawer, put it in her pocket, and moved restlessly over to the window, to look out once more. The wind swirled round the old house, and cried mournfully in its eaves and chimneys, and mingling with it, the odd, unceasing noise of the galloping horse startled her with the fresh possibility that this time it was really Guy coming. She went hurriedly along the passage into the octagon-room, and looked out through the broken iron gates across the new buildings in the stable-yard, through the scanty avenue of wind-blown elm trees, to the bridge across the Flete. There was no one coming, and all the distance was dim with mist and fog. The future was also dim and indistinct. What would the future be for this old house, which had so strange a past? Who would come after her? Who ought to come?“Guy is sure to be too late,” she muttered, though she did not know for what he needed to be in time, and then with a sudden thought she turned to look at the picture over the chimney, the face, on which in that many-windowed room the light always seemed to direct itself. “Eh!” she thought to herself, “It’s a comfortless countenance!” And having looked, she turned quickly, thinking she heard an arrival at last, and either her foot caught in the hearthrug, or a sudden dizziness seized her, she fell at full length on the slippery floor, her head striking against the boards, and the noise of the fall echoed through the house, and brought Jeanie and her mother both, running to see what had chanced.When Mrs Palmer found that the old lady was apparently stunned, certainly unconscious, she was afraid to run the risk of having her carried to the other side of the house, but caused a little iron bedstead to be brought in from one of the servants’ rooms, and, with some difficulty, the tall, bony figure was lifted upon it. She had to send to Rilston for the doctor, where Godfrey was, no one exactly knew, but she ordered a telegram to be sent to Guy at Ingleby, hardly knowing if it would give him time to come that day.Then ensued an afternoon of distress and perplexity. The doctor fortunately was encountered on the road, and came within an hour; but his verdict was bad. The head had been injured by the fall, and besides, it seemed to him, that the vital powers, the activity of the heart, more weakened by age than had been supposed, had failed in the shock, and revival was most improbable. He feared it was a question of hours.Mrs Palmer did her best. She was a soft, comfortable woman, not used to emergencies, and perhaps happily, the weird surroundings did not impress her slow imagination. She never thought of the picture that looked down at his descendant with his hopeless eyes, of the curious fate that brought this second waiting for those who did not come into the fatal chamber, and she only thought of the ghastly horseman, when the puzzling noise made her start up expecting to see one of the young men arriving. Most of the servants were strangers, and the one old housemaid, who was accustomed to wait on her mistress, was in tears and despair, afraid that “missus,” when she came round, would be displeased with everything that was done for her.Jeanie, in frightened whispers, confided to her mother what her aunt had told her about the blue envelope.“Burn a paper!” said Mrs Palmer. “Whatever she may say, Jeanie, don’t you think of doing such a thing. Who knows if she has her faculties? Don’t take such a responsibility on you for worlds. Godfrey must be back in an hour or so; I believe he was only going to lunch at the Rabys. See if you can send after him.”So the fire was lighted in the octagon-room, and all the incongruous necessaries of sudden illness appeared among the old furniture, and contrasted with the unused solitude of the place.Mrs Waynflete lay on her bed. She had moved and opened her eyes, but she did not speak, and whether she was conscious of waiting either for death, or for the coming of her nephews—who could say?The women about her waited for a “change,” or for some one to come to them out of the gathering twilight, and the doctor stayed and watched the case. The wind drove and cried, and the unresting horseman galloped round and round the house. Even the young vicar happened to be out for the day. Mrs Waynflete had trenchantly informed him that “she hadn’t often much necessity to call on other folks to help her.” But Mrs Palmer and Jeanie would have been very glad to welcome him now. Lights were brought, and the octagon windows shone out into the surrounding gloom.The two women did not think much about Guy; but they grieved much over the continued absence of Godfrey.Suddenly Mrs Waynflete looked up, with eyes into which a clearer light had come—“I’m dying,” she said abruptly, with some strength still in her deep old voice. “I’m dying, and they’re neither of them here. The Lord forgive me all my sins.”“Oh, dear aunt, I’m sure you’re a little better; the dear boys are just coming!”Mrs Waynflete folded her hands together, and looked straight out before her.“It might have occurred to you, Susan Joshua, to put up a prayer.”“I didn’t know if you’d like it aloud, Aunt Waynflete. I’m sure I have been praying for you—to myself.”“Pray for them; it’s more to the purpose.” Then poor Susan Joshua knelt down by the bed and put on her spectacles, and while Jeanie found a Prayer-book, and kneeling beside her held the light, read straight through the absolution and all the prayers for the visitation of the sick, and, if she did not apply the words to any but the passing soul before her, there was many a petition that suited well with the needs of the two, who “whether by the fraud and malice of the devil, or by their own carnal will and frailty,” were so sore bested.And in the midst, a sound of creaking wheels, a loud tone of inquiry and speeding footsteps, and Godfrey rushed in, pale and horrified, and fell on his knees beside her, clasping her hand.“Oh, Auntie—Auntie Waynflete!” he cried, almost sobbing. “Oh, Auntie! why wasn’t I here? Auntie, speak to me!”Mrs Waynflete’s fingers feebly answered to his agitated clasp. She looked hard at him, and she smiled a little, then she said faintly but imperiously—“Go on with the prayer.”Mrs Palmer read on; and the old woman’s breath came fainter and fainter still, and her hands grew feebler, till as almost the last words came, “Deliver her from fear of the enemy, and lift up the light of Thy countenance upon her, and give her peace,” Jeanie sprang up from her knees with a scream, and let the candle she held fall over and go out upon the floor.There, within the door, stood Guy, white and wild, with eyes that seemed the very home of fear.He came unsteadily forward, and, as Godfrey started up, sank on his knees by the bedside.Mrs Waynflete opened her eyes wide, and looked hard at him, struggling to speak.“Aunt Margaret,” he said, steadily and clearly, “I amnottoo late; I can’t satisfy your mind about the business, but you may be satisfied with me. I have got past, and I have come. You can die in peace.”It hardly seemed as if it was Guy who spoke, but old Margaret understood. She looked at him and smiled, a strange sweet smile, such as had never been seen on her lips before, and before memory could remind her of what she had done or left undone, her head fell back, and, with hardly a straggle, she was gone.Guy stood up for a moment, looked vaguely round him, then fell forward across the foot of the bed, as unconscious and as death-like as she.
Mrs Waynflete never told any one that she had sent for Guy. She did not know that he could not get a conveyance at Kirk Hinton, nor that her letter had been late for the post; and when he did not come by the first train in the morning, she grew angry and bitterly hurt with him, and still listened when he was long over-due. If she had never heard the galloping horseman before, she heard him then, the monotonous disappointing sound that began and grew near, and nearer, and never stopped; but, when it was nearest, went by and began again.
She wandered up into her bedroom, and looked to see if the two wills were safe. Jeanie, who did many little offices, hardly enough appreciated, ran in with some flowers for her table.
“Oh, aunt, I didn’t know you were there.”
“Look here, Sarah Jane. You can do as you’re bid without asking questions. Look in this drawer. D’ye see this blue envelope, in the right-hand corner?”
“Yes, aunt.”
“Now, here’s the key in the pocket of my gown, and if I give you the word, you go and take it out, and unlock this drawer, and take that blue envelope, and drop it in the fire. Do you understand?”
“Yes, aunt; but—”
“Which envelope are you to take?”
“The blue one, aunt—”
“It’s well to be on the safe side—and I might be prevented—I might be prevented! So, if Guy comes—”
“Guy, aunt? Do you expect Guy?”
“I wrote to him, desiring him to come. But there! he’s taken no heed of my words. And the train’s in by this time.”
“There’s another one, aunt, comes in at four, but—”
Mrs Waynflete turned the key in the drawer, put it in her pocket, and moved restlessly over to the window, to look out once more. The wind swirled round the old house, and cried mournfully in its eaves and chimneys, and mingling with it, the odd, unceasing noise of the galloping horse startled her with the fresh possibility that this time it was really Guy coming. She went hurriedly along the passage into the octagon-room, and looked out through the broken iron gates across the new buildings in the stable-yard, through the scanty avenue of wind-blown elm trees, to the bridge across the Flete. There was no one coming, and all the distance was dim with mist and fog. The future was also dim and indistinct. What would the future be for this old house, which had so strange a past? Who would come after her? Who ought to come?
“Guy is sure to be too late,” she muttered, though she did not know for what he needed to be in time, and then with a sudden thought she turned to look at the picture over the chimney, the face, on which in that many-windowed room the light always seemed to direct itself. “Eh!” she thought to herself, “It’s a comfortless countenance!” And having looked, she turned quickly, thinking she heard an arrival at last, and either her foot caught in the hearthrug, or a sudden dizziness seized her, she fell at full length on the slippery floor, her head striking against the boards, and the noise of the fall echoed through the house, and brought Jeanie and her mother both, running to see what had chanced.
When Mrs Palmer found that the old lady was apparently stunned, certainly unconscious, she was afraid to run the risk of having her carried to the other side of the house, but caused a little iron bedstead to be brought in from one of the servants’ rooms, and, with some difficulty, the tall, bony figure was lifted upon it. She had to send to Rilston for the doctor, where Godfrey was, no one exactly knew, but she ordered a telegram to be sent to Guy at Ingleby, hardly knowing if it would give him time to come that day.
Then ensued an afternoon of distress and perplexity. The doctor fortunately was encountered on the road, and came within an hour; but his verdict was bad. The head had been injured by the fall, and besides, it seemed to him, that the vital powers, the activity of the heart, more weakened by age than had been supposed, had failed in the shock, and revival was most improbable. He feared it was a question of hours.
Mrs Palmer did her best. She was a soft, comfortable woman, not used to emergencies, and perhaps happily, the weird surroundings did not impress her slow imagination. She never thought of the picture that looked down at his descendant with his hopeless eyes, of the curious fate that brought this second waiting for those who did not come into the fatal chamber, and she only thought of the ghastly horseman, when the puzzling noise made her start up expecting to see one of the young men arriving. Most of the servants were strangers, and the one old housemaid, who was accustomed to wait on her mistress, was in tears and despair, afraid that “missus,” when she came round, would be displeased with everything that was done for her.
Jeanie, in frightened whispers, confided to her mother what her aunt had told her about the blue envelope.
“Burn a paper!” said Mrs Palmer. “Whatever she may say, Jeanie, don’t you think of doing such a thing. Who knows if she has her faculties? Don’t take such a responsibility on you for worlds. Godfrey must be back in an hour or so; I believe he was only going to lunch at the Rabys. See if you can send after him.”
So the fire was lighted in the octagon-room, and all the incongruous necessaries of sudden illness appeared among the old furniture, and contrasted with the unused solitude of the place.
Mrs Waynflete lay on her bed. She had moved and opened her eyes, but she did not speak, and whether she was conscious of waiting either for death, or for the coming of her nephews—who could say?
The women about her waited for a “change,” or for some one to come to them out of the gathering twilight, and the doctor stayed and watched the case. The wind drove and cried, and the unresting horseman galloped round and round the house. Even the young vicar happened to be out for the day. Mrs Waynflete had trenchantly informed him that “she hadn’t often much necessity to call on other folks to help her.” But Mrs Palmer and Jeanie would have been very glad to welcome him now. Lights were brought, and the octagon windows shone out into the surrounding gloom.
The two women did not think much about Guy; but they grieved much over the continued absence of Godfrey.
Suddenly Mrs Waynflete looked up, with eyes into which a clearer light had come—
“I’m dying,” she said abruptly, with some strength still in her deep old voice. “I’m dying, and they’re neither of them here. The Lord forgive me all my sins.”
“Oh, dear aunt, I’m sure you’re a little better; the dear boys are just coming!”
Mrs Waynflete folded her hands together, and looked straight out before her.
“It might have occurred to you, Susan Joshua, to put up a prayer.”
“I didn’t know if you’d like it aloud, Aunt Waynflete. I’m sure I have been praying for you—to myself.”
“Pray for them; it’s more to the purpose.” Then poor Susan Joshua knelt down by the bed and put on her spectacles, and while Jeanie found a Prayer-book, and kneeling beside her held the light, read straight through the absolution and all the prayers for the visitation of the sick, and, if she did not apply the words to any but the passing soul before her, there was many a petition that suited well with the needs of the two, who “whether by the fraud and malice of the devil, or by their own carnal will and frailty,” were so sore bested.
And in the midst, a sound of creaking wheels, a loud tone of inquiry and speeding footsteps, and Godfrey rushed in, pale and horrified, and fell on his knees beside her, clasping her hand.
“Oh, Auntie—Auntie Waynflete!” he cried, almost sobbing. “Oh, Auntie! why wasn’t I here? Auntie, speak to me!”
Mrs Waynflete’s fingers feebly answered to his agitated clasp. She looked hard at him, and she smiled a little, then she said faintly but imperiously—
“Go on with the prayer.”
Mrs Palmer read on; and the old woman’s breath came fainter and fainter still, and her hands grew feebler, till as almost the last words came, “Deliver her from fear of the enemy, and lift up the light of Thy countenance upon her, and give her peace,” Jeanie sprang up from her knees with a scream, and let the candle she held fall over and go out upon the floor.
There, within the door, stood Guy, white and wild, with eyes that seemed the very home of fear.
He came unsteadily forward, and, as Godfrey started up, sank on his knees by the bedside.
Mrs Waynflete opened her eyes wide, and looked hard at him, struggling to speak.
“Aunt Margaret,” he said, steadily and clearly, “I amnottoo late; I can’t satisfy your mind about the business, but you may be satisfied with me. I have got past, and I have come. You can die in peace.”
It hardly seemed as if it was Guy who spoke, but old Margaret understood. She looked at him and smiled, a strange sweet smile, such as had never been seen on her lips before, and before memory could remind her of what she had done or left undone, her head fell back, and, with hardly a straggle, she was gone.
Guy stood up for a moment, looked vaguely round him, then fell forward across the foot of the bed, as unconscious and as death-like as she.
Part 2, Chapter VIII.“Unadvisedly with his Lips.”When old John Cooper arrived at Ingleby Mill on the next morning, an orange-coloured envelope lay on the top of the heap of letters awaiting him.He opened it deliberately, and read—“From Godfrey Waynflete. Mrs Waynflete died suddenly last night.”The old man sat staring at the brief words, as their sense gradually bore itself in upon him, first their meaning, and then their grievousness, the blank space in life left by the fall of that vigorous tree. He was still sitting, dazed and stunned, when there was a hasty step, and Cuthbert Staunton, with another telegram in his hand, came in.“Ah, you have heard?” he said. “I am going to Waynflete. Have you any particulars? No? Mine is only the same news, and also that Mr Guy is ill, and wants me.”“Oh Lord, sir,” said old Cooper, with a sob, “it’s as if the mill was dead and gone too!”Ill news spreads quick. The old man’s son and the younger Howarth, middle-aged men themselves, were soon in the room, listening with impassive faces but with heavy hearts to the evil tidings.“It’s very bad news,” said Howarth, huskily—“very bad indeed.”“I must catch the early train,” said Cuthbert, “and I will take care that you have further news as soon as possible.”“I must go to Jos Howarth,” said old Cooper, getting up. “I’ll hear what he has to say first.”He went away to find his old fellow-worker, and the younger men looked at each other.“It’s very difficult,” said John Henry Cooper, “to say what will come next!”Cuthbert went off; and as this first train did not compel a delay at the junction, it was still quite early when he reached Kirk Hinton, where a Rilston fly was waiting for him, and in this he was soon driving up to the house of which he had heard so often, but which he had never seen.The rain had all cleared off, the air was fresh and the sky blue, the old elms near the house stood up like pillars of gold, the house itself was clothed in every shade of russet and dark green. The first impression on one coming from the noisy, smoky Ingleby was of utter peace.Mrs Palmer hurried out to meet him, with a sense of relief at sight of his brown, sensible face, and at sound of his kind, quiet voice, and behind her stood Godfrey with a dazed, scared look, and never a word of greeting.“Oh, Mr Staunton, I am indeed glad to see some one to speak to. We have done nothing; Guy has been too ill to give directions, except to send for you, and Godfrey is not willing to act without him.”She proceeded, as he questioned her, to tell him of the events of the day before, and of Guy’s condition. He had been a long time unconscious after his aunt’s death, and had fainted over and over again afterwards. He was better now, but the doctor had insisted on perfect stillness, and had seemed much alarmed about him.“I think,” said Cuthbert, “that Guy has been too reserved about his state of health. He was not at all fit for so much exertion and for such a shock. But Godfrey, hadn’t you better see if your aunt has left any directions, anything to show you what she wished?”“She did, certainly,” said Mrs Palmer, “in a table by her bed. She told my daughter to burn a certain envelope if she gave her orders to do so, when Guy arrived.”“Whatdid she tell her?” exclaimed Godfrey, suddenly.“To burn a blue envelope. But as you know, dear aunt never spoke a word after Guy came, and if she had, I should never have allowed Jeanie to do such a thing.”Cuthbert was perplexed by Godfrey’s scared look.“Canhehave seen the ghost?” he thought. “I think,” he said aloud, “that you had better see if you can find any directions. May I go to Guy at once, Mrs Palmer? I have been with him lately, and I think I shall know how to manage.”“Oh, Mr Staunton, I am only too thankful to see you here, to share the responsibility.”When Guy looked up into his friend’s welcome face, it seemed to Cuthbert that there was a new and different expression in the black-ringed eyes. The hands he held eagerly out, shook, and he was as white as his pillow; but the colourless lips smiled a little, and in his eye a was a sort of triumph.“I’ve been very bad. I mustn’t talk,” he whispered. “You’ll understand, and not mind—if I get—frightened.”“I shall not mind at all. I’ll take care of you. You’ll be better in a few hours.”“Perhaps!” said Guy, quietly.In the mean time, Godfrey, to whom Mrs Palmer had given his aunt’s keys, went into the deserted bedroom, and, shutting the door, sat down in an old square chair by the writing-table, and tried to collect himself and to command his senses.Constancy had shown him that his action in disobeying the telegram had either been ridiculously childish, or despicably mean; in either case contemptible. The shock that met him on his arrival had startled away, for the moment, all feelings but those of real and natural grief, till the alarm at Guy’s condition had forced him to recollect whose fault the over-exertion had been, whose doing was whatever anxious waiting had befallen his old aunt on her death-bed, and whatever grief his brother would feel at being absent from it. And now the report of Jeanie’s words filled him with a vague fear, born perhaps of his own bad conscience, which caused him to dread turning the key in the lock. There was, too, the first chilling experience of the change made by death. The day before, he would never have dreamed of touching those keys.He opened the drawer, however, at last. There were various packets of bills and letters, and on the top a long white parchment envelope, a long blue one, and a smaller square one of the cream-laid paper, which Mrs Waynflete had always used.Godfrey took this last timidly in his hand. It was labelled, “Directions as to my Funeral.” He looked at the parchment envelope on which was engrossed, “Last Will and Testament of Mrs Margaret Waynflete, April 5th, 1880.”Then he looked at the blue one, and on this was written in his aunt’s laboured writing—writing which, if not acquired, had been practised since childhood, “My Will, September 25th, 189-.”The blue envelope which his aunt had perhaps meant to destroy! Godfrey caught up all three documents in his hand, all were unsealed, but he could not resolve to open them by himself, and hurried up to Guy’s room. On the way he met Jeanie, in a black frock, her face swelled with crying, and some autumn flowers in her hand.Poor Jeanie! All that had passed bore for her the message, “We shall not live with Godfrey any more.”Godfrey caught her arm. “Jeanie,whatdid she say about the blue envelope?”“She said, ‘burn it,’ if she told me, and she would perhaps tell me when Guy came. She was wondering why he did not come all day. She had never told us she wrote to him.”Godfrey dropped his hold and went on upstairs. He found Guy lying still, with Cuthbert beside him. There was but little light through the old-fashioned deep-set windows, and the room was full of the glow of the fire.“Must Guy see these papers?” said Cuthbert, moving. “Can’t we manage without troubling him?”“I—Icannotlook at them without Guy,” said Godfrey, in confused, stammering accents.“What is it?” said Guy. “About the funeral? Read it to me, I can listen.”Godfrey slowly took the paper out of the square envelope, his hand shook, and he could not get his voice. Cuthbert took it from him, and read—“It is my desire that I should be buried by my husband’s side in Ingleby churchyard, and that all members of my husband’s family, who are within reach, should be invited to attend. Also all my work-people. I wish Matthew Thompson, of Ingleby, to be the undertaker, and that everything should be done the same as at my husband’s funeral. I consider that in being laid in my grave at Waynflete, I should be putting a slight on my dear husband, which I am not willing to do. I have sometimes regretted that I gave up my married name, and I should wish it to be placed on my tombstone. Waynflete belongs to the one of my great-nephews I consider the least likely to follow the evil example of those who went before him, and I hope he will restore the family to its right position, and lead a sober and God-fearing life. Also that he will never consider himself above the business, to which he owes his education and his property. And I hope that those who come after me will conduct the business honestly, and never take a penny that is not fairly earned.“And I wish it to be remembered that the recovery of Waynflete is owing to my having kept to one purpose all my life, and to my dear husband’s generosity and business abilities.“I desire that my Will may be read at once on my decease, as I object to people’s minds being disturbed at such times by speculations. I have acted all my life on such judgment as the Almighty has chosen to give me, and though I have endeavoured to reflect on my past conduct, I cannot see that I have judged amiss.“I forgive all my enemies. I forgive every one who made a mock of my family when I worked in the mill. I forgive my brother’s wife, who was a fine lady, and no good to him. I forgive Vendale, Vendale and Sons, who supplied me with worthless goods, and charged a dishonest price for them. I consider that I was wrong in objecting to my great-nephew Guy forgiving the enemies of his family, though I warn him not to gamble or lay bets with a person who comes of Maxwell blood. And I pray that my trespasses may be forgiven, as I forgive other peoples’.“Margaret Waynflete.”There was a silence as Cuthbert ceased. He himself felt how strange it was that he should be the reader of this manifesto. Godfrey sat on the foot of the bed, his face turned away and his broad shoulders heaving. Guy listened intently. He was the first to speak, in a quiet level tone.“Now, let us look at the Will. Give it to me.”Cuthbert took up the blue envelope, opened it, and put the long parchment it contained into Guy’s hand, helping him to raise himself a little. Godfrey hid his face in his hands.Guy looked down the page with his lips set hard. He laughed a little as he read to himself, then flung the parchment towards his brother.“You can act for yourself, now, Godfrey,” he said. “Aunt Margaret has followed out her principles.Youare the one least likely to follow the sins of our fathers, and you are master of Waynflete. So—so—thatcouldn’t have been what ‘He’ wanted?”“She meant to burn it—and I will,” cried Godfrey, seizing the paper. “So help me, God, I’ll never—”“Hold hard!” cried Guy, starting up and seizing his arm, “don’t be such an infernal fool! Stop him, Cuthbert!”But Cuthbert had already laid detaining hands on the parchment.“Stop—stop. That’s no earthly good. I’ve seen it. I’ll not allow it to be done. Hang it all, Godfrey, come to your senses, and control yourself!”“Guy,” cried Godfrey, rushing back and throwing himself on his knees beside him. “You know—you know I did not want it. Say you know it, or I shall go mad. I wanted to keep you from Moorhead—I never thought—I did not know— If I had—and now it is too late—”“What’s all this?” said a new voice, as the doctor came into the room. “Funeral? You’ll have two funerals to arrange for, Mr Godfrey if you can’t settle this one without your brother. Go at once, and take all your confounded business papers with you.”But Cuthbert, not thinking Godfrey’s hands safe ones, put both the wills into his own pocket, and giving the stupefied, half-maddened youth the paper of directions, told him to give it to Mrs Palmer, and pushed him out of the room, shutting the door behind him.Godfrey stumbled past Mrs Palmer as he met her on the stairs, and threw the paper towards her. “Telegraph—settle it,” he said, and pushing blindly on to the old unused library, shut himself into it.A young man, with a strongphysique, sufficient talent, and a good wholesome record, is unaccustomed to emotional agonies, Godfrey woke from the simple take-it-for-granted life of healthy, prosperous youth, to the dreadful consciousness of having committed a disgraceful action, from which he reaped advantage at his brother’s expense.The cruel wound of a slighted and rejected passion had sapped his powers of endurance. He went a little mad for the time under the awful pressure. At whatever cost, it must be lightened.He stood in the window leaning his head against the black oak panel behind him, and staring out with haggard eyes at the fair fields and gardens, which were, it seemed, his own; the hateful inheritance which he had gained for himself.He could not bear the days as they passed, he could not look into a human face, much less into that of his brother, unless he could find some means of lightening his passionate self-disgust. He took his way slowly through the darkened house up to the chamber of death.Margaret Waynflete was still lying in the octagon-room where her end had come upon her. The place had all been made scrupulously tidy, and the little bedstead was standing in the middle of the polished floor. There was no attempt at softening the chill, bare fact of death, by flowers or lights. “Aunt Waynflete wouldn’t have liked it,” Mrs Palmer said, in answer to Jeanie’s faint suggestion; nor was there any emblem of hope and faith.The white, cold daylight came in through the half-closed shutters, and fell upon the grand and awful outlines of the tall old woman whose vigour in life emphasised the contrasting stillness of death. The long, strong hands that had worked so hard, the strong will that had known no paralysing doubts, were idle and inoperative now.Godfrey had never seen death before, and he saw it with a grim and unsoftened aspect; but he was so set on his own purpose that his natural grief and awe were in abeyance.He stood by the prostrate figure looking down at it, while the picture over his head looked at them both.Then he knelt down, and laid his hand on that of the dead woman, starting a little at the unaccustomed chillness of the touch, and before her face, and in the sight of God, he vowed that he would never profit by the results of his wicked action, never enjoy the fortune from which he had ousted Guy, never be master of Waynflete.“Asshehad one purpose, so will I. I’ll free myself from this property that ought not to be mine, and till I have, I’ll seek no good for myself, and I’ll have no other object. Even Constancy shall not come before it. So help me, God!”Then Godfrey got up from his knees, and felt the sting of shame and self-reproach a little blunted, so that his natural reticence and pride began to revive, and he felt that he would behave properly and not make the family affairs a spectacle for surprised and disapproving Palmers.He did not again go near Guy, who was, indeed, quite unfit to talk to him, and who puzzled Cuthbert more than ever, as, even while the perilous faintness was hardly kept at bay, he whispered, with a sort of triumph—“Remember; if Idie, I’m not beaten.”“I shall remember,” said Cuthbert, quietly. He could not himself resist the discomfort of the creaks and the whispers, the cracks and the murmuring which were always the talk of visitors to Waynflete; he noticed the low, incessant sound of the horseman coming nearer and never coming close. He turned his head to the window as the dusk was closing in, and Guy said, coolly—“That’s the horseman, I suppose, I never heard it before. Miss Vyner says it is certainly the effect of wind in the narrow valley.”“I suppose all old houses have odd noises,” was Cuthbert’s original remark.“Yes; there’s nothing in these. I say, where are those two wills?”“I have them safe till the solicitor comes.”“Read the last one over. I must know about the mill. Excite me? No. I’m getting better.”Cuthbert judged it best to comply, and Guy lay quite still and listened.“Ha!” he said finally; “there’s a chance then for us.”He smiled his secretive, self-reliant smile, and said nothing further; but in a few minutes more he beckoned Cuthbert close, and grasped his arm, as if in agony beyond control. But he mastered himself at last.“Iwillnot go crazy!” he muttered, and, at length, clinging to the hand that seemed to hold him back from the abyss, he fell asleep.The young vicar of the parish came to offer help, and the family solicitor, Mr Manton, arrived on the next morning, much hurt that his old client should have made a second will without applying to him. He interviewed his Rilston brother, and even hinted a question as to the old lady’s faculties; but every one in the house answered for her full possession of these to the last. He managed the arrangements for the funeral, which was to take place on the Tuesday, at Ingleby, a short service being held first in the old church at Waynflete. This was the vicar’s proposal, and by Guy’s desire, it was accepted.“I shall be able to go on Tuesday,” he said; “and, Cuthbert, I want you to send for a beautiful white wreath for me. Yes; I know Aunt Margaret disapproved of flowers, but I want this one.”In spite of this disapproval, when a wreath of deep-coloured autumn flowers came from Constancy, “more like her than white flowers, and in memory of an intercourse, unlike every other to me;” there was no question as to its use.Rawdie, miserable in the changed house, took refuge in Guy’s room.“We can sympathise,” said Guy, with an odd look; and he liked to have his hand on the long, hairy slug, as Rawdie lay stretched out beside him.Rawdie’s master kept away until the Monday evening, when Guy sent for him, and he went reluctantly, and with secret dread.Guy was dressed, and sitting up by the fire.“Come in, Godfrey,” he said; “I’m much more fit to-day, and I want to talk to you before to-morrow.”Godfrey sat down and looked at him. He had so much to say that he was quite silent.“There’ll be a good deal to surprise you, presently,” said Guy; “but as to the will, it represents Aunt Margaret’s wishes exactly. She had very good reason to distrust me, and the end has been shaped, no doubt, quite rightly.”“She would have burnt it, but for me,” said Godfrey.“What do you mean?”“She meant to burn it if you came in time. She told Jeanie so; and—I tore up your telegram, and did not send the trap on purpose.”“What did you do that for?”“It was my last chance of a word with—with Constancy Vyner; and I thought you wanted to go to Moorhead—to get the chance.”“Well,” said Guy, slowly, “I shouldn’t have thought it of you.”“I met the telegraph-boy on the bridge. I shouldn’t have thought it of myself. I believe some fiend lay in wait to tempt me.”“Very likely he did! Well, I’ve never had any thought of Miss Vyner. Of course, I have always known that you were gone on her—you wasted your trouble.”Even at that moment, Godfrey felt a sense of relief at the convincing dryness of Guy’s tone. But it stung him.“I was mad,” he said; “but don’t imagine I shall profit by the consequences. I shall treat the will as so much waste paper. As if it had been burnt, as it ought to have been.”“There are two words to that,” said Guy.“I’ve spoken mine,” said Godfrey, standing up and speaking hotly. “I swore before—by her side, as solemnly as I knew how, that I wouldn’t inherit under that will, and I will not.”“Whatdid you do?”Then Godfrey told him what he had done, ending passionately, with—“I could never have faced you otherwise.”“You have only got yourself and everybody into a hopeless hole. Making vows like a romantic girl, which depend on your own state of mind for their meaning,” said Guy, angrily. “The fiend was handy then, I should say;” and he laughed in an odd, fierce fashion.“I know what I meant,” said Godfrey; “but, of course, I’ve given you the right to say what you please to me.”“No,” said Guy, after a moment’s silence. “Don’t be angry. I’m disappointed, and there’s more in it than I can tell you now. But—shake hands. There’s only us two in the world. Of course I knew you wouldn’t wrong me of a halfpenny. And I’ll take good care no one thinks you have.”Godfrey shook the offered hand, in a formal, schoolboy fashion. He had nothing more to say. His feelings were too strong to be articulate, and he was, moreover, desperately afraid of making Guy faint.So that he was not sorry when Cuthbert came back and turned him out. He had made his confession, but nothing in those dreary days seemed real to him, not even himself.
When old John Cooper arrived at Ingleby Mill on the next morning, an orange-coloured envelope lay on the top of the heap of letters awaiting him.
He opened it deliberately, and read—
“From Godfrey Waynflete. Mrs Waynflete died suddenly last night.”
The old man sat staring at the brief words, as their sense gradually bore itself in upon him, first their meaning, and then their grievousness, the blank space in life left by the fall of that vigorous tree. He was still sitting, dazed and stunned, when there was a hasty step, and Cuthbert Staunton, with another telegram in his hand, came in.
“Ah, you have heard?” he said. “I am going to Waynflete. Have you any particulars? No? Mine is only the same news, and also that Mr Guy is ill, and wants me.”
“Oh Lord, sir,” said old Cooper, with a sob, “it’s as if the mill was dead and gone too!”
Ill news spreads quick. The old man’s son and the younger Howarth, middle-aged men themselves, were soon in the room, listening with impassive faces but with heavy hearts to the evil tidings.
“It’s very bad news,” said Howarth, huskily—“very bad indeed.”
“I must catch the early train,” said Cuthbert, “and I will take care that you have further news as soon as possible.”
“I must go to Jos Howarth,” said old Cooper, getting up. “I’ll hear what he has to say first.”
He went away to find his old fellow-worker, and the younger men looked at each other.
“It’s very difficult,” said John Henry Cooper, “to say what will come next!”
Cuthbert went off; and as this first train did not compel a delay at the junction, it was still quite early when he reached Kirk Hinton, where a Rilston fly was waiting for him, and in this he was soon driving up to the house of which he had heard so often, but which he had never seen.
The rain had all cleared off, the air was fresh and the sky blue, the old elms near the house stood up like pillars of gold, the house itself was clothed in every shade of russet and dark green. The first impression on one coming from the noisy, smoky Ingleby was of utter peace.
Mrs Palmer hurried out to meet him, with a sense of relief at sight of his brown, sensible face, and at sound of his kind, quiet voice, and behind her stood Godfrey with a dazed, scared look, and never a word of greeting.
“Oh, Mr Staunton, I am indeed glad to see some one to speak to. We have done nothing; Guy has been too ill to give directions, except to send for you, and Godfrey is not willing to act without him.”
She proceeded, as he questioned her, to tell him of the events of the day before, and of Guy’s condition. He had been a long time unconscious after his aunt’s death, and had fainted over and over again afterwards. He was better now, but the doctor had insisted on perfect stillness, and had seemed much alarmed about him.
“I think,” said Cuthbert, “that Guy has been too reserved about his state of health. He was not at all fit for so much exertion and for such a shock. But Godfrey, hadn’t you better see if your aunt has left any directions, anything to show you what she wished?”
“She did, certainly,” said Mrs Palmer, “in a table by her bed. She told my daughter to burn a certain envelope if she gave her orders to do so, when Guy arrived.”
“Whatdid she tell her?” exclaimed Godfrey, suddenly.
“To burn a blue envelope. But as you know, dear aunt never spoke a word after Guy came, and if she had, I should never have allowed Jeanie to do such a thing.”
Cuthbert was perplexed by Godfrey’s scared look.
“Canhehave seen the ghost?” he thought. “I think,” he said aloud, “that you had better see if you can find any directions. May I go to Guy at once, Mrs Palmer? I have been with him lately, and I think I shall know how to manage.”
“Oh, Mr Staunton, I am only too thankful to see you here, to share the responsibility.”
When Guy looked up into his friend’s welcome face, it seemed to Cuthbert that there was a new and different expression in the black-ringed eyes. The hands he held eagerly out, shook, and he was as white as his pillow; but the colourless lips smiled a little, and in his eye a was a sort of triumph.
“I’ve been very bad. I mustn’t talk,” he whispered. “You’ll understand, and not mind—if I get—frightened.”
“I shall not mind at all. I’ll take care of you. You’ll be better in a few hours.”
“Perhaps!” said Guy, quietly.
In the mean time, Godfrey, to whom Mrs Palmer had given his aunt’s keys, went into the deserted bedroom, and, shutting the door, sat down in an old square chair by the writing-table, and tried to collect himself and to command his senses.
Constancy had shown him that his action in disobeying the telegram had either been ridiculously childish, or despicably mean; in either case contemptible. The shock that met him on his arrival had startled away, for the moment, all feelings but those of real and natural grief, till the alarm at Guy’s condition had forced him to recollect whose fault the over-exertion had been, whose doing was whatever anxious waiting had befallen his old aunt on her death-bed, and whatever grief his brother would feel at being absent from it. And now the report of Jeanie’s words filled him with a vague fear, born perhaps of his own bad conscience, which caused him to dread turning the key in the lock. There was, too, the first chilling experience of the change made by death. The day before, he would never have dreamed of touching those keys.
He opened the drawer, however, at last. There were various packets of bills and letters, and on the top a long white parchment envelope, a long blue one, and a smaller square one of the cream-laid paper, which Mrs Waynflete had always used.
Godfrey took this last timidly in his hand. It was labelled, “Directions as to my Funeral.” He looked at the parchment envelope on which was engrossed, “Last Will and Testament of Mrs Margaret Waynflete, April 5th, 1880.”
Then he looked at the blue one, and on this was written in his aunt’s laboured writing—writing which, if not acquired, had been practised since childhood, “My Will, September 25th, 189-.”
The blue envelope which his aunt had perhaps meant to destroy! Godfrey caught up all three documents in his hand, all were unsealed, but he could not resolve to open them by himself, and hurried up to Guy’s room. On the way he met Jeanie, in a black frock, her face swelled with crying, and some autumn flowers in her hand.
Poor Jeanie! All that had passed bore for her the message, “We shall not live with Godfrey any more.”
Godfrey caught her arm. “Jeanie,whatdid she say about the blue envelope?”
“She said, ‘burn it,’ if she told me, and she would perhaps tell me when Guy came. She was wondering why he did not come all day. She had never told us she wrote to him.”
Godfrey dropped his hold and went on upstairs. He found Guy lying still, with Cuthbert beside him. There was but little light through the old-fashioned deep-set windows, and the room was full of the glow of the fire.
“Must Guy see these papers?” said Cuthbert, moving. “Can’t we manage without troubling him?”
“I—Icannotlook at them without Guy,” said Godfrey, in confused, stammering accents.
“What is it?” said Guy. “About the funeral? Read it to me, I can listen.”
Godfrey slowly took the paper out of the square envelope, his hand shook, and he could not get his voice. Cuthbert took it from him, and read—
“It is my desire that I should be buried by my husband’s side in Ingleby churchyard, and that all members of my husband’s family, who are within reach, should be invited to attend. Also all my work-people. I wish Matthew Thompson, of Ingleby, to be the undertaker, and that everything should be done the same as at my husband’s funeral. I consider that in being laid in my grave at Waynflete, I should be putting a slight on my dear husband, which I am not willing to do. I have sometimes regretted that I gave up my married name, and I should wish it to be placed on my tombstone. Waynflete belongs to the one of my great-nephews I consider the least likely to follow the evil example of those who went before him, and I hope he will restore the family to its right position, and lead a sober and God-fearing life. Also that he will never consider himself above the business, to which he owes his education and his property. And I hope that those who come after me will conduct the business honestly, and never take a penny that is not fairly earned.
“And I wish it to be remembered that the recovery of Waynflete is owing to my having kept to one purpose all my life, and to my dear husband’s generosity and business abilities.
“I desire that my Will may be read at once on my decease, as I object to people’s minds being disturbed at such times by speculations. I have acted all my life on such judgment as the Almighty has chosen to give me, and though I have endeavoured to reflect on my past conduct, I cannot see that I have judged amiss.
“I forgive all my enemies. I forgive every one who made a mock of my family when I worked in the mill. I forgive my brother’s wife, who was a fine lady, and no good to him. I forgive Vendale, Vendale and Sons, who supplied me with worthless goods, and charged a dishonest price for them. I consider that I was wrong in objecting to my great-nephew Guy forgiving the enemies of his family, though I warn him not to gamble or lay bets with a person who comes of Maxwell blood. And I pray that my trespasses may be forgiven, as I forgive other peoples’.
“Margaret Waynflete.”
There was a silence as Cuthbert ceased. He himself felt how strange it was that he should be the reader of this manifesto. Godfrey sat on the foot of the bed, his face turned away and his broad shoulders heaving. Guy listened intently. He was the first to speak, in a quiet level tone.
“Now, let us look at the Will. Give it to me.”
Cuthbert took up the blue envelope, opened it, and put the long parchment it contained into Guy’s hand, helping him to raise himself a little. Godfrey hid his face in his hands.
Guy looked down the page with his lips set hard. He laughed a little as he read to himself, then flung the parchment towards his brother.
“You can act for yourself, now, Godfrey,” he said. “Aunt Margaret has followed out her principles.Youare the one least likely to follow the sins of our fathers, and you are master of Waynflete. So—so—thatcouldn’t have been what ‘He’ wanted?”
“She meant to burn it—and I will,” cried Godfrey, seizing the paper. “So help me, God, I’ll never—”
“Hold hard!” cried Guy, starting up and seizing his arm, “don’t be such an infernal fool! Stop him, Cuthbert!”
But Cuthbert had already laid detaining hands on the parchment.
“Stop—stop. That’s no earthly good. I’ve seen it. I’ll not allow it to be done. Hang it all, Godfrey, come to your senses, and control yourself!”
“Guy,” cried Godfrey, rushing back and throwing himself on his knees beside him. “You know—you know I did not want it. Say you know it, or I shall go mad. I wanted to keep you from Moorhead—I never thought—I did not know— If I had—and now it is too late—”
“What’s all this?” said a new voice, as the doctor came into the room. “Funeral? You’ll have two funerals to arrange for, Mr Godfrey if you can’t settle this one without your brother. Go at once, and take all your confounded business papers with you.”
But Cuthbert, not thinking Godfrey’s hands safe ones, put both the wills into his own pocket, and giving the stupefied, half-maddened youth the paper of directions, told him to give it to Mrs Palmer, and pushed him out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
Godfrey stumbled past Mrs Palmer as he met her on the stairs, and threw the paper towards her. “Telegraph—settle it,” he said, and pushing blindly on to the old unused library, shut himself into it.
A young man, with a strongphysique, sufficient talent, and a good wholesome record, is unaccustomed to emotional agonies, Godfrey woke from the simple take-it-for-granted life of healthy, prosperous youth, to the dreadful consciousness of having committed a disgraceful action, from which he reaped advantage at his brother’s expense.
The cruel wound of a slighted and rejected passion had sapped his powers of endurance. He went a little mad for the time under the awful pressure. At whatever cost, it must be lightened.
He stood in the window leaning his head against the black oak panel behind him, and staring out with haggard eyes at the fair fields and gardens, which were, it seemed, his own; the hateful inheritance which he had gained for himself.
He could not bear the days as they passed, he could not look into a human face, much less into that of his brother, unless he could find some means of lightening his passionate self-disgust. He took his way slowly through the darkened house up to the chamber of death.
Margaret Waynflete was still lying in the octagon-room where her end had come upon her. The place had all been made scrupulously tidy, and the little bedstead was standing in the middle of the polished floor. There was no attempt at softening the chill, bare fact of death, by flowers or lights. “Aunt Waynflete wouldn’t have liked it,” Mrs Palmer said, in answer to Jeanie’s faint suggestion; nor was there any emblem of hope and faith.
The white, cold daylight came in through the half-closed shutters, and fell upon the grand and awful outlines of the tall old woman whose vigour in life emphasised the contrasting stillness of death. The long, strong hands that had worked so hard, the strong will that had known no paralysing doubts, were idle and inoperative now.
Godfrey had never seen death before, and he saw it with a grim and unsoftened aspect; but he was so set on his own purpose that his natural grief and awe were in abeyance.
He stood by the prostrate figure looking down at it, while the picture over his head looked at them both.
Then he knelt down, and laid his hand on that of the dead woman, starting a little at the unaccustomed chillness of the touch, and before her face, and in the sight of God, he vowed that he would never profit by the results of his wicked action, never enjoy the fortune from which he had ousted Guy, never be master of Waynflete.
“Asshehad one purpose, so will I. I’ll free myself from this property that ought not to be mine, and till I have, I’ll seek no good for myself, and I’ll have no other object. Even Constancy shall not come before it. So help me, God!”
Then Godfrey got up from his knees, and felt the sting of shame and self-reproach a little blunted, so that his natural reticence and pride began to revive, and he felt that he would behave properly and not make the family affairs a spectacle for surprised and disapproving Palmers.
He did not again go near Guy, who was, indeed, quite unfit to talk to him, and who puzzled Cuthbert more than ever, as, even while the perilous faintness was hardly kept at bay, he whispered, with a sort of triumph—
“Remember; if Idie, I’m not beaten.”
“I shall remember,” said Cuthbert, quietly. He could not himself resist the discomfort of the creaks and the whispers, the cracks and the murmuring which were always the talk of visitors to Waynflete; he noticed the low, incessant sound of the horseman coming nearer and never coming close. He turned his head to the window as the dusk was closing in, and Guy said, coolly—
“That’s the horseman, I suppose, I never heard it before. Miss Vyner says it is certainly the effect of wind in the narrow valley.”
“I suppose all old houses have odd noises,” was Cuthbert’s original remark.
“Yes; there’s nothing in these. I say, where are those two wills?”
“I have them safe till the solicitor comes.”
“Read the last one over. I must know about the mill. Excite me? No. I’m getting better.”
Cuthbert judged it best to comply, and Guy lay quite still and listened.
“Ha!” he said finally; “there’s a chance then for us.”
He smiled his secretive, self-reliant smile, and said nothing further; but in a few minutes more he beckoned Cuthbert close, and grasped his arm, as if in agony beyond control. But he mastered himself at last.
“Iwillnot go crazy!” he muttered, and, at length, clinging to the hand that seemed to hold him back from the abyss, he fell asleep.
The young vicar of the parish came to offer help, and the family solicitor, Mr Manton, arrived on the next morning, much hurt that his old client should have made a second will without applying to him. He interviewed his Rilston brother, and even hinted a question as to the old lady’s faculties; but every one in the house answered for her full possession of these to the last. He managed the arrangements for the funeral, which was to take place on the Tuesday, at Ingleby, a short service being held first in the old church at Waynflete. This was the vicar’s proposal, and by Guy’s desire, it was accepted.
“I shall be able to go on Tuesday,” he said; “and, Cuthbert, I want you to send for a beautiful white wreath for me. Yes; I know Aunt Margaret disapproved of flowers, but I want this one.”
In spite of this disapproval, when a wreath of deep-coloured autumn flowers came from Constancy, “more like her than white flowers, and in memory of an intercourse, unlike every other to me;” there was no question as to its use.
Rawdie, miserable in the changed house, took refuge in Guy’s room.
“We can sympathise,” said Guy, with an odd look; and he liked to have his hand on the long, hairy slug, as Rawdie lay stretched out beside him.
Rawdie’s master kept away until the Monday evening, when Guy sent for him, and he went reluctantly, and with secret dread.
Guy was dressed, and sitting up by the fire.
“Come in, Godfrey,” he said; “I’m much more fit to-day, and I want to talk to you before to-morrow.”
Godfrey sat down and looked at him. He had so much to say that he was quite silent.
“There’ll be a good deal to surprise you, presently,” said Guy; “but as to the will, it represents Aunt Margaret’s wishes exactly. She had very good reason to distrust me, and the end has been shaped, no doubt, quite rightly.”
“She would have burnt it, but for me,” said Godfrey.
“What do you mean?”
“She meant to burn it if you came in time. She told Jeanie so; and—I tore up your telegram, and did not send the trap on purpose.”
“What did you do that for?”
“It was my last chance of a word with—with Constancy Vyner; and I thought you wanted to go to Moorhead—to get the chance.”
“Well,” said Guy, slowly, “I shouldn’t have thought it of you.”
“I met the telegraph-boy on the bridge. I shouldn’t have thought it of myself. I believe some fiend lay in wait to tempt me.”
“Very likely he did! Well, I’ve never had any thought of Miss Vyner. Of course, I have always known that you were gone on her—you wasted your trouble.”
Even at that moment, Godfrey felt a sense of relief at the convincing dryness of Guy’s tone. But it stung him.
“I was mad,” he said; “but don’t imagine I shall profit by the consequences. I shall treat the will as so much waste paper. As if it had been burnt, as it ought to have been.”
“There are two words to that,” said Guy.
“I’ve spoken mine,” said Godfrey, standing up and speaking hotly. “I swore before—by her side, as solemnly as I knew how, that I wouldn’t inherit under that will, and I will not.”
“Whatdid you do?”
Then Godfrey told him what he had done, ending passionately, with—
“I could never have faced you otherwise.”
“You have only got yourself and everybody into a hopeless hole. Making vows like a romantic girl, which depend on your own state of mind for their meaning,” said Guy, angrily. “The fiend was handy then, I should say;” and he laughed in an odd, fierce fashion.
“I know what I meant,” said Godfrey; “but, of course, I’ve given you the right to say what you please to me.”
“No,” said Guy, after a moment’s silence. “Don’t be angry. I’m disappointed, and there’s more in it than I can tell you now. But—shake hands. There’s only us two in the world. Of course I knew you wouldn’t wrong me of a halfpenny. And I’ll take good care no one thinks you have.”
Godfrey shook the offered hand, in a formal, schoolboy fashion. He had nothing more to say. His feelings were too strong to be articulate, and he was, moreover, desperately afraid of making Guy faint.
So that he was not sorry when Cuthbert came back and turned him out. He had made his confession, but nothing in those dreary days seemed real to him, not even himself.
Part 2, Chapter IX.The White Wreath.There could not be much sorrow at Waynflete for so new a comer, but there was much respectful interest. All the villagers crowded into the little church and churchyard on the stormy morning of Mrs Waynflete’s funeral, at their head “soft” Jem, with a bit of crape on his sleeve; and the neighbouring gentry and clergy either came themselves or sent their carriages to follow the procession from the church to Kirk Hinton station. The actual mourners were few, and Cuthbert Staunton came into the church behind the two brothers.“She said that she forgave your family,” Guy said gravely. “It is right that you should be there.”Guy seemed quite able to bear his part. He hardly looked paler than Godfrey, and was less agitated, as he stood with the white wreath in his hand, looking down at the pavement. It was a day of heavy driving clouds, and the light in the dark old church dimmed and brightened alternately, catching now and then the stony figures of the older Waynfletes, till Cuthbert felt as if it would hardly have surprised him if the ghostly form of the traitor ancestor had stood among the mourners and mocked their grief. It grew so dark as the service went on that he could see little but the fair heads of the two brothers before him, and the white surplice of the vicar.The prayers and hymns were over, the coffin was lifted up again and carried out across the nameless grave of the unhappy Guy, whose shortcomings she who was gone had retrieved so resolutely. But the Guy who followed the funeral, who had also lost the inheritance for himself, stopped short. He stooped and laid the white and scented wreath over the brief record on that unhonoured stone, then drew himself up, and slowly and resolutely looked all round the church, his eyes resting at last on the door in front of him. There was, or Cuthbert fancied so, an instant’s recoil, then he walked straight on, as if he were walking up to a cannon’s mouth, and followed the coffin out of the church. Godfrey, who had stood with drooping head, fighting with boyish tears, stared after him in amazement at his action.The long drive to Kirk Hinton, and the weary commonplaces of the railway journey were got through in time, and at Ingleby station the scene changed. The invited guests were waiting on the platform—rough, sensible-looking business men, with some few of the more nearly connected ladies, in handsome black.Outside, it might have been the burying of a princess—the open space in front of the station was filled with grave, weather-beaten faces. And two and two, the work-people, in their Sunday clothes, formed behind the funeral party and walked after them through the smoky town, into the big, ugly parish church, full of pews and galleries, and with plain square windows letting in a dull glare of cold grey light. It was soon filled to overflowing with silent men and women.There were only two surpliced figures; but in the west gallery were the choir, by their own request, and the funeral hymn rose up, full, sweet and strong, joined in by all the vast concourse of people.Then they passed out into a large churchyard, filled with square grey stones, in which the family vault of the Palmers had been opened, and there Margaret Waynflete’s body was laid among those for whom, and with whom, she had worked through all her long life.In consideration of Guy’s fatigue, and of Godfrey’s obstinate reluctance to take his place, there was no formal meal, but the party gathered in the big dining-room at the Mill House, where various cold refreshments were placed on the table, with a great display of heavy, handsome plate.Presently Guy, after such civilities as were required of him, raised his voice above the decorous murmur of the guests, and said—“I have asked Mr Manton to read aloud my great-aunt’s will, as I have no doubt every one here will wish to know what it is. And, first, I wish to say that, though its contents were a great surprise to my brother Godfrey, they were not at all unexpected by me. I know the grounds on which my aunt acted, and I am fully aware that, to the best of her belief, she acted rightly.”It perhaps goes without saying that the two young Waynfletes were not very popular with the Palmer clan. Guy, in especial, with his delicate face and girlish eyes, was an incomprehensible person to them. He compelled attention now, however, as after this little speech he sat down near the head of the table, while Godfrey shrank into a dark corner, only withheld from a protest by the force of his brother’s will.In the silence that ensued, the solicitor began to read; the various Palmers listened critically, John Cooper and Joshua Howarth, with their two sons, with deep anxiety. They listened to the statement of various legacies to old servants, and more considerable ones to Cooper and Howarth, and then to the startling fact that Godfrey Waynflete was to be heir of Waynflete Hall and all the land belonging to it, and of certain sums of money invested in various railways and securities. The management of the business was entirely in the hands of the two brothers, and Ingleby Mill House was also left for the use of both or either as should be convenient, neither being able to let or sell it without the consent of the other. It was soon evident to the intelligent audience that besides the money spent on Waynflete, and invested in the business, the fortune realised was unexpectedly small, and the long-standing family suspicion of Thomas Palmer’s wisdom in leaving everything in the hands of his wife gained in strength.Godfrey heard nothing after the little murmur of surprise that greeted his name. His ears and face burned and tingled with the sense of shame and wrongful dealing.Guy sat looking at the table. He knew, of course, exactly what was coming, but the sound could not be other than bitter. He knew that his character was gone in the eyes of these shrewd, suspicious men of business. He set his mouth hard, and his eyes fell on the old-fashioned stand of small cut-glass spirit-decanters that stood in front of him. He stretched out his hand and poured out a wine-glassful of whisky. He forgot the will, and ceased to hear the solicitor as he drew it towards him, till Mr Manton, in the long dry catalogue of farms and fields, read: “the land going by the name of Upper Flete, lying between the river and the township of Kirk Hinton—” Guy moved his hand, and knocked the full glass over, then pushed his chair back from the table, and sat absolutely still till the reading was over.“Well, Mr Guy,” said Mr Matthew, the oldest and most important of the Palmers, “your great-aunt was a very shrewd woman of business, for a woman, so to speak, and you don’t seem to have met with her approval.”“No,” said Guy, shortly, “I did not. Hush, Godfrey,” he added, as the poor boy pushed desperately forward and stood beside him. “Hold your tongue—there’s nothing you can say. We understand each other.”“I’ve been at work in Ingleby Mills for sixty-five years,” said John Cooper, coming to the front, “and I’m not at all dissatisfied to work under Mr Guy. He knows the business as well as a lad of his age can do.”“Thank you, John Cooper,” said Guy, with a look of almost disproportionate pleasure. He rose rather unsteadily, and caught at Godfrey’s arm. “Come,” he said, in a sharp, imperative whisper, “get me out of sight.”He rather pulled Godfrey, than was guided by him, through the door behind him into the empty library, and sank into a chair, while Godfrey broke down into a tempest of uncontrollable misery.“Now, look here,” said Guy, in the same faint, sharp tones, “you have nothing like the bargain you think for. To-morrow I’ll go into it all. I’m done for now; you must manage without me.”How Godfrey managed through the rest of the hateful formalities of that wretched day he hardly knew; but when it was at last over, and he went to bed, he was so worn out with the weary misery of it that he fell dead asleep and slept till morning. He woke, with a sudden impulse so strong upon him that it seemed like an inspiration that had come in sleep. He would cut the whole concern. He would take his younger brother’s fair portion, whatever it might be, and make a new life for himself, somewhere, at the ends of the earth, away from Constancy’s scorn and his own conscience. So he would keep his vow, and cut the knot which he himself had tied so tight. Then Guy would see that he must take his own, andshewould no longer despise him. A definite purpose, however rash, made him feel more himself. As he came downstairs he met Cuthbert.“Guy wants you to go down to the mill,” he said, “and tell old Mr Cooper that he will see him to-morrow, and to ask for any message from him. And then he wants to talk to you. He will do it; but be as careful as you can. He is not fit for business.”“Very well,” said Godfrey; “I want to talk to him too. He won’t mind what I want to tell him, and it won’t take five minutes to discuss it.”
There could not be much sorrow at Waynflete for so new a comer, but there was much respectful interest. All the villagers crowded into the little church and churchyard on the stormy morning of Mrs Waynflete’s funeral, at their head “soft” Jem, with a bit of crape on his sleeve; and the neighbouring gentry and clergy either came themselves or sent their carriages to follow the procession from the church to Kirk Hinton station. The actual mourners were few, and Cuthbert Staunton came into the church behind the two brothers.
“She said that she forgave your family,” Guy said gravely. “It is right that you should be there.”
Guy seemed quite able to bear his part. He hardly looked paler than Godfrey, and was less agitated, as he stood with the white wreath in his hand, looking down at the pavement. It was a day of heavy driving clouds, and the light in the dark old church dimmed and brightened alternately, catching now and then the stony figures of the older Waynfletes, till Cuthbert felt as if it would hardly have surprised him if the ghostly form of the traitor ancestor had stood among the mourners and mocked their grief. It grew so dark as the service went on that he could see little but the fair heads of the two brothers before him, and the white surplice of the vicar.
The prayers and hymns were over, the coffin was lifted up again and carried out across the nameless grave of the unhappy Guy, whose shortcomings she who was gone had retrieved so resolutely. But the Guy who followed the funeral, who had also lost the inheritance for himself, stopped short. He stooped and laid the white and scented wreath over the brief record on that unhonoured stone, then drew himself up, and slowly and resolutely looked all round the church, his eyes resting at last on the door in front of him. There was, or Cuthbert fancied so, an instant’s recoil, then he walked straight on, as if he were walking up to a cannon’s mouth, and followed the coffin out of the church. Godfrey, who had stood with drooping head, fighting with boyish tears, stared after him in amazement at his action.
The long drive to Kirk Hinton, and the weary commonplaces of the railway journey were got through in time, and at Ingleby station the scene changed. The invited guests were waiting on the platform—rough, sensible-looking business men, with some few of the more nearly connected ladies, in handsome black.
Outside, it might have been the burying of a princess—the open space in front of the station was filled with grave, weather-beaten faces. And two and two, the work-people, in their Sunday clothes, formed behind the funeral party and walked after them through the smoky town, into the big, ugly parish church, full of pews and galleries, and with plain square windows letting in a dull glare of cold grey light. It was soon filled to overflowing with silent men and women.
There were only two surpliced figures; but in the west gallery were the choir, by their own request, and the funeral hymn rose up, full, sweet and strong, joined in by all the vast concourse of people.
Then they passed out into a large churchyard, filled with square grey stones, in which the family vault of the Palmers had been opened, and there Margaret Waynflete’s body was laid among those for whom, and with whom, she had worked through all her long life.
In consideration of Guy’s fatigue, and of Godfrey’s obstinate reluctance to take his place, there was no formal meal, but the party gathered in the big dining-room at the Mill House, where various cold refreshments were placed on the table, with a great display of heavy, handsome plate.
Presently Guy, after such civilities as were required of him, raised his voice above the decorous murmur of the guests, and said—
“I have asked Mr Manton to read aloud my great-aunt’s will, as I have no doubt every one here will wish to know what it is. And, first, I wish to say that, though its contents were a great surprise to my brother Godfrey, they were not at all unexpected by me. I know the grounds on which my aunt acted, and I am fully aware that, to the best of her belief, she acted rightly.”
It perhaps goes without saying that the two young Waynfletes were not very popular with the Palmer clan. Guy, in especial, with his delicate face and girlish eyes, was an incomprehensible person to them. He compelled attention now, however, as after this little speech he sat down near the head of the table, while Godfrey shrank into a dark corner, only withheld from a protest by the force of his brother’s will.
In the silence that ensued, the solicitor began to read; the various Palmers listened critically, John Cooper and Joshua Howarth, with their two sons, with deep anxiety. They listened to the statement of various legacies to old servants, and more considerable ones to Cooper and Howarth, and then to the startling fact that Godfrey Waynflete was to be heir of Waynflete Hall and all the land belonging to it, and of certain sums of money invested in various railways and securities. The management of the business was entirely in the hands of the two brothers, and Ingleby Mill House was also left for the use of both or either as should be convenient, neither being able to let or sell it without the consent of the other. It was soon evident to the intelligent audience that besides the money spent on Waynflete, and invested in the business, the fortune realised was unexpectedly small, and the long-standing family suspicion of Thomas Palmer’s wisdom in leaving everything in the hands of his wife gained in strength.
Godfrey heard nothing after the little murmur of surprise that greeted his name. His ears and face burned and tingled with the sense of shame and wrongful dealing.
Guy sat looking at the table. He knew, of course, exactly what was coming, but the sound could not be other than bitter. He knew that his character was gone in the eyes of these shrewd, suspicious men of business. He set his mouth hard, and his eyes fell on the old-fashioned stand of small cut-glass spirit-decanters that stood in front of him. He stretched out his hand and poured out a wine-glassful of whisky. He forgot the will, and ceased to hear the solicitor as he drew it towards him, till Mr Manton, in the long dry catalogue of farms and fields, read: “the land going by the name of Upper Flete, lying between the river and the township of Kirk Hinton—” Guy moved his hand, and knocked the full glass over, then pushed his chair back from the table, and sat absolutely still till the reading was over.
“Well, Mr Guy,” said Mr Matthew, the oldest and most important of the Palmers, “your great-aunt was a very shrewd woman of business, for a woman, so to speak, and you don’t seem to have met with her approval.”
“No,” said Guy, shortly, “I did not. Hush, Godfrey,” he added, as the poor boy pushed desperately forward and stood beside him. “Hold your tongue—there’s nothing you can say. We understand each other.”
“I’ve been at work in Ingleby Mills for sixty-five years,” said John Cooper, coming to the front, “and I’m not at all dissatisfied to work under Mr Guy. He knows the business as well as a lad of his age can do.”
“Thank you, John Cooper,” said Guy, with a look of almost disproportionate pleasure. He rose rather unsteadily, and caught at Godfrey’s arm. “Come,” he said, in a sharp, imperative whisper, “get me out of sight.”
He rather pulled Godfrey, than was guided by him, through the door behind him into the empty library, and sank into a chair, while Godfrey broke down into a tempest of uncontrollable misery.
“Now, look here,” said Guy, in the same faint, sharp tones, “you have nothing like the bargain you think for. To-morrow I’ll go into it all. I’m done for now; you must manage without me.”
How Godfrey managed through the rest of the hateful formalities of that wretched day he hardly knew; but when it was at last over, and he went to bed, he was so worn out with the weary misery of it that he fell dead asleep and slept till morning. He woke, with a sudden impulse so strong upon him that it seemed like an inspiration that had come in sleep. He would cut the whole concern. He would take his younger brother’s fair portion, whatever it might be, and make a new life for himself, somewhere, at the ends of the earth, away from Constancy’s scorn and his own conscience. So he would keep his vow, and cut the knot which he himself had tied so tight. Then Guy would see that he must take his own, andshewould no longer despise him. A definite purpose, however rash, made him feel more himself. As he came downstairs he met Cuthbert.
“Guy wants you to go down to the mill,” he said, “and tell old Mr Cooper that he will see him to-morrow, and to ask for any message from him. And then he wants to talk to you. He will do it; but be as careful as you can. He is not fit for business.”
“Very well,” said Godfrey; “I want to talk to him too. He won’t mind what I want to tell him, and it won’t take five minutes to discuss it.”