Waynflete

He managed, however, to make his appearance downstairs, where Rawdie’s cheerful bark recalled the poor little dog’s terror of the night before. Guy picked him up, and looked into his cairn-gorm coloured eyes, but no change had come into them. Godfrey, too, was eating his breakfast, and making Jeanie talk about Constancy.

Guy played with his tea-cup, and made critical remarks on the young ladies, till the trap that he had ordered to take him to the station appeared, when he cut short his farewells, and went off hastily, without giving his aunt time to say that she wished him to come back again shortly.

As he grew calmer with the increasing distance, he took a resolution, which was the first beginning of a struggle against his fate.

Cuthbert Staunton arrived in due time, in a holiday humour, and having plenty of conversation, he occupied Mrs Palmer’s attention until the hour came for the two young men to wish her good night, and betake themselves to a room devoted to the use of Guy and Godfrey, where they could talk and smoke at their leisure.

“Yours is a charming climate,” said the visitor, “where any one may light a fire in August with a clear conscience. Short of southern moonlight, etc, there is nothing so delightful.”

“Sit down in front of it,” said Guy; “we’re generally glad of one here, and it looks cheerful. Now, I’m expecting you to put me up to all the newest lights – one gets rusty down here. About the spooks, for instance, the Miss Vyners were talking of in London. I want to examine into them a bit. Did you ever come across a fellow who had seen one – by any chance?”

“No,” said Staunton. “I should like to come across a first-hand one, very much.”

“Well, here’s your chance, then. I have – twice.”

“Seen a man who has seen one?”

“No, better than that, seen the genuine article, myself. I – I want to know how to manage him. It seems the correct thing, nowadays, to entertain ghosts and imps of all kinds.”

“I don’t know any, personally,” said Cuthbert, purposely echoing Guy’s bantering tone, though he noticed the matches he struck in vain, and the suppressed excitement of his manner. “But I should like to hear your experiences very much.”

“He paid me a visit last night,” said Guy.

“And what is he like?”

Guy left off trying to light his pipe, and leant back in a corner of the big chair in which he was lounging. The plunge was made. He was shaken to pieces with the effort, but he still endeavoured to maintain a tone of indifference.

“I think I’ll have to tell you a little family history,” he said; “if it won’t bore you.”

“Not at all. Tell me just as you can – as you like.”

“Well, but you know, I believe, about the old traitor who drank himself to death from remorse, and naturally, haunted his descendants. Some of them drank, and, in fact, there was always an inclination to an occasional good-for-nought. Well, then came the Guy who was too late – my namesake – so, by the way, was the traitor – that story you know, too. I don’t believe my father, or grandfather, were quite all my aunt could have wished. They died young, you know; but I’m not aware that they ever saw the ghost. But, five years ago, when we went to Waynflete, to see Mrs John Palmer, I did.”

“You saw the ghost of your ancestor?”

“Well! I had seen Guy’s picture; I was full of it, and full of seeing the place for the first time, and the face flashed upon me just like the picture. The picture’s like me, you know; absurdly so. I saw him – plain as I see you. Well, that once wouldn’t have mattered, it would only have been a queer thing. But – ”

“But that was not the only time?” said Cuthbert.

“I never saw him again till last night, but – I —feel him. I wake up half mad with fear. I have dreamed of him. I don’t know what it is, the fit seizes me, and when I’ve scourged the folly out of me, I faint, or my heart gets bad. I haven’t quite been able to hide that; but no one knows why. No one knows that I am afraid of my own shadow!”

“Gently, my dear boy,” said Staunton, kindly. “Keep quiet for a minute. It’s hard work telling me; makes your heart beat now, doesn’t it?”

“Let me get through it. These fits have come and knocked me up, over and over – muffed my exam – for my degree – made a fool of me, times out of number. But, last night – he was there – the whole of him, myself in that queer old dress, as one might look when one’s chance was over, and one wanted others to share one’s disgrace. I saw him; but, oh, my God, Cuthbert! It’s not the seeing; but no other Presence is ever so real – so close! So, I’m catching at a rope. He’ll have me; I shall have to follow him – but – I’m trying to fight.”

Guy had dropped all his pretence at indifference; he spoke in short, stifled whispers, his eyes dilated with fear.

Cuthbert laid his hand on the fingers that were clutching the arm of the chair, and said gently, “I am very glad you have told me. You’ll feel better soon. It is very bad for you to suffer without any help.”

Guy clung to the warm, human clasp, it was unexpectedly comforting. Then he whispered, “I don’t drink, you know, yet. But he’ll drive me to it. He’s ruining my life!”

Cuthbert did not speak for some moments. Then he said, “Of course, there is more than one view to be taken of these things.”

“Oh yes, I might be mad – or lying.”

“Well, I don’t feel driven to those conclusions. Do you mind being questioned a little?”

“No; I think I should like it. I’ve felt so much alone.”

“Yes. You feel more afraid of the terror that seizes on you unexpectedly, than of the – thing itself?”

“Yes,” said Guy, hesitating; “at least, I mind feeling he is there, more than seeing him. That’s a detail.”

“Try to tell me what you mean by feeling.”

“I can’t. It’s another sense.”

“And do you feel nothing else with this sense?”

“No,” said Guy, decidedly. “Nothing. And, many things that I could like – ”

“Yes. Try and tell me. I think I shall understand.”

“Yes; oh, you’re so kind. I’ve always felt he never would come where you were. Some people fret me, even in the next room. But, music now – that might lift one away from him, but he stops it; he always stops what I care most for. I could bear it, but my body won’t; that betrays me.”

“Yes, that wants careful looking to. Now, my boy, try and tell me what your own view of the matter is. What you think most likely to be true about it.”

Guy looked up with pitiful puzzled eyes.

“Ask me more questions,” he said.

“Ever read up the subject?”

“No, I began; but I daren’t – ”

“You feel sure it is something besides your own nerves?”

“Yes.”

“Something or somebody outside yourself?”

“Outside myself? I don’t know that.”

Guy suddenly caught Cuthbert’s hand again and pressed it hard against his forehead, as if to steady his brain. Then he spoke more clearly.

“I don’t know if what comes over me is my ancestor himself, or the fiend that tempted him, or my own worst self. As for the vision, I’m not so much afraid of that.”

“Then what you want is to be able to resist this influence?”

“Yes, before it ruins me, body and soul.”

“Well, you must let me think it over. Depend upon it, I’ll not leave you alone to fight the battle. Now, you’ll sleep to-night?”

“Oh yes, I am not frightened now,” said Guy, simply.

“Well then, we’ll go to bed, and talk it over again to-morrow. But you must come up to town with me and see a doctor, you need only tell him that your nerves have had a shock. But I wouldn’t avoid the general subject. Such experiences are not altogether exceptional.”

“Nervous affections, in fact,” said Guy, dryly.

“Well, sometimes, you know. Anyway, there are safer remedies than brandy, if your heart gives you trouble. And mind, come to me at any time, or send for me. Bring it into the light of day.”

Guy felt soothed by the kindness, and he knew that the advice was good. But, all the same, he knew that it was Florella who had touched the heart of his trouble.

“You’re awfully kind,” he said, gratefully.

“I know the look of trouble,” answered Cuthbert; “and fate hasn’t left me many anxieties. I’m quite free to worry about you.”

Guy’s eloquent eyes softened. The fellow-feeling was better than the reasoning. But as he got up to go to bed, he said in his usual self-contained voice, “You know, Rawdie saw him too, and had palpitations.”

Part 2, Chapter I

A Big Situation

Florella Vyner lay awake in the cool misty light of a moorland morning, and thought, not for the first time, of her conversation with Guy Waynflete. She had the power of intense and steady contemplation, that was the faculty that enabled her to “see,” and when she woke to the sense of the unusualness of what had passed, she felt quite certain that the circumstances were also unusual enough to justify the words which she had spoken. They had surprised herself; and now, on the day when she would see Guy again she divined that he had been speaking of himself. It was he who suffered spiritual fear, he whose soul was in danger, and needed prayers to help it. A sense of awe came upon her. Guy believed that she saw; but she felt herself to have been hitherto blind. She had entered into a spiritual conflict, and, suddenly, she knew that it was a real one. “Pray for his soul.” What a tremendous thing she had promised! And oh! how tremendous must be the Power whom she had invoked.

There came upon Florella a moment when “this earth we hold by seemed not earth,” a moment when she did indeed “see.”

Her sister’s voice startled her.

“It’s not going to be a fine day. Never mind, wet mist is characteristic of Ingleby.” Constancy was sitting up in bed. Her abundant hair fell over her shoulders in thick vigorous waves, her hands were clasped round her knees.

“Cosy,” said Florella, with sisterly straightforwardness, “I hope you’re going to behave better than you did at Waynflete.”

“I haven’t done any harm,” said Cosy, with entire good humour. “Why should you all grumble? I haven’t read an hour the less, nor given up a discussion, nor got a bit tired of being here. But I won’t be only one sort of girl. People who have brains can manage a situation.”

“I should have thought their brains ought to tell them when a situation was too big for them to manage.”

“Really, Flo! You do say extremely clever things sometimes. Yes, so they ought. But this isn’t a big situation, though Godfrey Waynflete is a very big young man.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Florella, beginning to get up. “You’re simply flirting, and talking fine about it. But, I don’t think Godfrey Waynflete is flirting, and you may find that the situation grows.”

“Well! I’ll see if I can grow up to it,” said Constancy. “But you know, in these days a girl like me is much more likely to flirt too little than too much.”

Godfrey appeared at the carriage door as they drove up to the Mill House, full of hearty greetings, big, bright and boyish as ever, but with a certain glow in face and manner which was unmistakable as Constancy sprang out, and lifting Rawdie, kissed him between his eyes.

Guy stood behind, looking on with repressed amusement, for he had not yet perceived that it was a “big situation.” He acted host, and showman to the mill. He was pale, but so self-contained and like himself that Cuthbert could have thought the agitated confidence of the night before had been a dream. But Florella felt quite sure of her surmise regarding him, though he said no word to recall it to her.

Constancy had no intention but of spending another pleasant day in studying the “other side of life,” and in teasing her companions; but she did not know with whom she had to deal. If Godfrey had been either old enough to understand her, or timid enough to hesitate and lose his chance, she might have appeared to “manage the situation.” But he began the day with a definite purpose, and laid his plans to suit it. The wet weather was much against him, as he could not offer himself to her, either when walking round the mill, or when sitting in the drawing-room, with Cousin Susan acting hostess. He did not, however, mean to be baffled, and while the whole party were listening to Guy’s explanation of the looms, as well as the noise they made permitted, he said to her, with decision —

“I want you to come and see this,” and as she complied, he led her quickly out of the long, many-windowed room, where the hands were working, into another where the great bales of wool were stored ready for use.

The windows were wide open, with the wet air blowing through, there was a strong smell of oily wool; but Godfrey, with a soft, persistent step, led her round the piled-up bales, into a little open space between them. The window looked across miles of misty, smoky country, and the ceaseless roar of the machinery was softened by distance, so that they could hear themselves speak.

“I don’t see anything to look at here,” said Constancy, “and I want to understand how the weaving is done.”

“There is nothing to see,” said Godfrey. “I brought you here on purpose to tell you something. I – I love you. I mean to work with all there is of me to be worthy of you. I’ve only that one object in life, and I shall never have another. I – I’ve thought you liked me a little. You do – Constancy, don’t you? You will, won’t you? You know that I care for nothing else in the world but you.”

He came close to her, taking her hands and looking down at her, with eyes to which his eagerness lent a sort of fierce determination.

Constancy’s heart gave a great throb as the blood rushed to her face, but startled as she was, she held her own.

“Now you are spoiling everything that is so extremely pleasant. You know quite well I never thought of anything of that sort. We have had such a very good time. Now, don’t say any more. I never meant – ”

“You must have meant it at Waynflete; you meant me to believe it.”

“Now, you are making a great deal too much of things. Why, you know, I have my work at college – ”

“If you care a bit for me, what does that matter?”

Godfrey’s face darkened, and filled with passionate desire.

“You don’t care for me?” he said, hoarsely.

“Well, no,” she said, “not in that way. I’m not sentimental; and you – we – are much too young to think of such nonsense. Let us find the others.”

Godfrey stood in her path for a moment. He was smarting, not only under her refusal, but under her deliberate ignoring of his depth of feeling.

“I am young,” he said, “young enough to wait, and I will make you care. The love I offer you is worth a great deal more than you pretend to think. I’ll – I’ll make you see that yet. Allow me – to show you the way back to the others.”

He stood aside and pointed the way, forcing his manner into rigid politeness, but his face white, and his eyes fixing hers. His whole nature rose against defeat, though, as he fell behind her, he felt so miserable that, boy as he was, his throat ached, and unshed tears stung his eyelids.

Constancy felt strange thrills.

She dashed into the midst of the others, as they came out, and breathlessly remarked on the beauty of the bridge they were crossing, “So picturesque,” she said.

“If the stream was clean,” said Guy.

“Well, you often call a dirty child picturesque; why not a dirty river, with a tree and a barn, or whatever it is? I think it’s beautiful.”

“Beauty that is marred,” said Guy.

“Then it has more human interest,” said Constancy. “It is another aspect of what I said about the summeriness of London.”

She dashed into the discussion, and talked brilliantly, rousing both Guy and Cuthbert Staunton to talk too, while Godfrey hung behind, angered more than ever. He was obliged occasionally to speak, and even to hand tea-cups and open doors for the ladies. Such is the power of civilisation. As she talked and smiled and managed, into her complex mind there flashed new ideas, and new knowledge. She had learned ever so much by that queer little interview. All kinds of new “mind stuff” had come into her head. She had conceived her part of the scene very badly – but certainly – it was an experience, and as they drove home through the rainy mist, the experience translated itself into all sorts of forms. Godfrey had held the door of the waggonette for her; had given her her wraps, had offered all politeness, but he had neither spoken to her, nor touched her hand.

“Yes,” she thought, as she laid her head on her pillow, “I can’t be sorry for any experience. It’s quite different from reading about it.”

Then suddenly, as she lay in the darkness, she not only knew, but felt; something new and strange did indeed sweep over her, an overwhelming might be. Her spirit fell before it, and she hid her face, and cried.

“Cosy, did you find the situation bigger than you expected?” said Florella.

Constancy was silent till she could trust her voice, then said, abruptly —

“Yes; I wasn’t skilful. Never mind, I’ll manage better another time. I think it was inevitable – really.”

“And you don’t – ”

“Don’t reciprocate? No! It would upset all my ideas to marry before I’m twenty-five. And oh – you know, Flo, the Waynfletes are a fine type, and so on; but, dear me, one belongs to another century, another world, another universe. I don’t know where the dividing line is exactly; but there’s a mighty deep one somewhere.”

“Perhaps he’ll cross it – now.”

“He did beat the record for the wide jump at his college!” said Cosy. “But he’s just like his great-aunt. How could one marry a person who thinks it signifies so dreadfully what one thinks about everything. It’s not that such as we think differently; but we don’t think it matters much what we think, and they do.”

“Poor Godfrey Waynflete!” said Florella. “He certainly thinks it matters what you think about him.”

“Good night,” said Cosy, ending the conversation.

Part 2, Chapter II

Crossing the Flete

Almost before the waggonette had driven away from the door, Godfrey turned, round to his brother.

“I shall catch the last train,” he said.

“The last train! Now? How do you mean to get from Kirk Hinton?”

“I can walk.”

“In this weather? You’ll reduce Rawdie to a mass of pulp.”

“He can stop with you. Good night,” said Godfrey, ramming on his hat, and marching off through the driving rain, while Guy shrugged his shoulders, and detained Rawdie.

“Ha, ha! you poor little beggar, you’re nowhere,” he said. “You’ll have to put up with me.”

Kirk Hinton was a little station on the branch line which connected Rilston with the junction for Ingleby. It was four miles from Moorhead, and six from Waynflete, and as it contained no sort of conveyance, it was necessary for travellers to make arrangements beforehand if they desired to be carried to their destination.

Godfrey had ordered a trap to meet him on the next morning; but now there was nothing for it but to walk up hill and down dale through the pouring rain, and chew the cud of his bitter thoughts as he went.

The field path to Waynflete was of the roughest, and led over rain washed stony tracks, through copse-wood and thicket, down to the bottom of Flete Dale, where the Flete beck was crossed by a rough wooden bridge near which was the Dragon, the little old public-house which had been there from time immemorial. On the other side of the river a steep ascent led up to Flete Edge, beyond which lay the Hall. The road from Kirk Hinton took a much more gradual route, and crossed the Flete by another bridge at the end of the old avenue at the back of the house.

Godfrey was way-wise; but he had never taken the walk before, and he was confused by the storm and the darkness, and by his own miserable thoughts.

He had not given up his point. No; he was not defeated. He would neither avoid Constancy nor cease to recommend himself to her. He would meet her on every possible opportunity; he would not give way an inch. He would succeed unless – other fellows – ? There were other fellows, of course. There was Guy.

Godfrey stumbled through a great clump of brambles and bushes, over a low wall and down a rough field to the riverside, where he dimly saw the bridge in the uncertain light. He felt chilled and miserable; his resolute hope failed him. There was Guy. She always liked Guy, and he always roused himself to talk and laugh with her. Godfrey’s angry spirit exaggerated these memories of friendly intercourse. His heart sank lower and lower. He paused on the bridge, and listened to the dreary roar of the wind through the wide plantations, and to the swirling rush of the stream beneath him. He could not see anything distinctly, but driving mist and swaying trees; but he came up out of the gloomy hollow as much convinced of his brother’s imaginary rivalry as if the fiend, or the spirit, who had stood in the path of his unlucky ancestor, and so wrecked the fortunes of succeeding generations, had whispered the deluding suggestion into his ear.

How he reached the house he hardly knew, and then he wondered how he could account to his aunt for his sudden return.

Mrs Waynflete, however, kept no count of his movements; she took no notice till the first train the next morning brought over the Ingleby stable-boy with Rawdie, Godfrey’s bag, and a note from Guy, in which he stated that he would not be able to come to Waynflete at present, as he was going on “a little outing” with Staunton. Godfrey felt certain that the little outing was to Moorhead, and when he read as a conclusion, “Cheer up, old boy; there’s worse luck in the world than yours,” he felt as if Guy was mocking his trouble.

Mrs Waynflete was angry at the message. She thought Guy neglectful and indifferent to the place she loved so well. In those days, when the novelty of her surroundings destroyed her sense of accustomed comfort, she thought much. She was too good a woman of business to have left the future unprovided for, and she had long ago made a will in which the Waynflete property, together with certain investments, and half the share in the profits of Palmer Brothers was left to Guy, while the other half share made a fair younger son’s portion for Godfrey.

But now, how could she trust Guy, either with the property or with the business? Was he not too likely to ruin both? Could she rely on him to carry on the work she had so bravely begun? She distrusted him deeply, and he did nothing to remove her distrust. She had always kept her will in her own hands; it would be easy to destroy it. But then, if anything happened to her, everything would be in confusion. An idea occurred to her, which in its simplicity and independence attracted her strongly. She would have another will made, in which Godfrey’s name was substituted for that of Guy, and then she would keep both at hand. At any moment it would be easy to destroy one of them, much easier than to alter it, or to draw out a new one in a hurry, and she would put Guy to certain tests, and judge him accordingly. She would drive into Rilston and see the solicitor there this very afternoon, for it struck her that she did not wish to explain the workings of her mind to the old family man of business who had made the will now in force.

At luncheon-time she was unusually silent, while Jeanie questioned Godfrey as to the events of the day before, and at last remarked, as she cut up her peach, “How funny it is that Guy should be such friends with Mr Staunton!”

“Why?” said Mrs Waynflete, abruptly. “Mr Staunton seems a very well-conducted young man.”

“Oh yes, aunt; but don’t you know that he is descended from the wicked old Maxwell who ruined the Waynfletes. Constancy Vyner told us all about it. She said it was so interesting – to be friends with your hereditary foe.”

“What’s that?” said the old lady. “I ought to have been told, Godfrey; it’s a very singular fancy on the part of your brother.”

“Oh, I dare say Guy has very good reasons for the friendship,” said Godfrey, sulkily.

Mrs Waynflete made no reply. She released Jeanie from the duty of accompanying her on her afternoon drive, and before she started, she wrote a note to Guy.

She drove into Rilston, gave her directions to the solicitor, and arranged to have the new will made out, and brought for her signature on the next day. Then she went back, and, dismissing her carriage at the bridge, prepared to inspect the needful repairs that were being made in the farm-buildings and stables.