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Part 3, Chapter I
Handicapped

In the meantime Godfrey, stung to the very quick by Constancy’s shallow answer to the confession which he had forced from the depths of his soul, was kicking against the pricks of disappointed passion, and trying to persuade himself that they did not hurt him. He could not work, he barely scraped through his final examination; he could think of nothing but how to escape from himself. He could not face Guy till his plan of restitution was matured, and he caught at the Rabys’ invitation to go and spend a gay Christmas among a lively set of other young people at Kirkton Hall. He was very miserable, but, when people are young and strong, it is possible to be amused in spite of inward misery, and nobody guessed that Godfrey was either conscience-stricken or broken-hearted; and while he was thus keeping thought at bay, there befell him a great and unexpected temptation.

Jeanie, being now at Rilston with the Matthew Palmers, appeared on the scene in the altogether new light of a flattered and considered guest. She was talked of as a prize to be won, and in some occult and mysterious manner it was conveyed to Godfrey that this prize might be his for the asking.

Perhaps her Palmer kindred, who were people of much sense in a quiet way, knew what might be the lot of a simple and homely little girl whose great fortune bought a husband of good family and with bad debts. And Godfrey Waynflete, even if his fortune was not great, was no doubt a shrewd young fellow, or his shrewd old aunt would never have preferred him to his elder brother.

These ideas were conveyed by sober Palmer cousins to Godfrey’s mind, and they offered him the chance of a life of his own apart from Waynflete and Ingleby. Guy would have fewer scruples if Godfrey did not need the wrongfully gained inheritance. These purposes served as excuses, but it is an old story and never a very creditable one; Godfrey’s heart or, rather, his hand, was just ready to be “caught on the rebound.” Constancy’s contrast had a double charm. And Jeanie, who had always loved attention, now that she could attract it, like Miss Mercy Pecksniff, rose to the occasion. She had both sense and self-esteem, she was no longer the meek little cousin ready to make herself useful, and though she had an honest fancy for Godfrey, life had blossomed out with new possibilities. She knew very well that he had never sought her before, and she did not mean him to walk over the course. Pretended indifference was due to her ideas of propriety.

It was intoxicating to find herself made much of by a number of lively young people, all of the sort she knew, and liked, who flirted in her own style, and talked the kind of talk to which she could respond. Under such encouragement she was both pretty and lively, and the young folks at Kirkton and the neighbourhood had what Godfrey, and even Guy a year before, would have thought a very good time. One thing led to another, jokes to blushes, blushes to whispers, whispers to a half-acknowledged understanding, and almost before Godfrey knew what he was about he had practically committed himself, been laughed at and congratulated, and, by the time Christmas week was over, would have been irrevocably bound, had Jeanie ever allowed him to come quite to the point.

There had been one of those friendly dances among an intimate set of very young people, when much can pass as the jest of the moment, though the undercurrent of earnest gives the jest its charm.

Godfrey and Jeanie had waltzed and whirled through more dances than the young lady chose to count, and Godfrey’s last sight of her was as she skimmed along the polished floor of the gallery after Minnie Raby, refusing to stop and say good night. She peeped round the corner, and flung a rose right into his face, then vanished into her room and banged the door, while a sound like “To-morrow!” caught his ear. Every one was saying good night and running about. She had just refused him the rose in a cotillion, all was “jest and youthful jollity,” but Godfrey felt that “to-morrow” was big with fate. For about the tenth time that evening, he informed himself that he had completely forgotten Constancy.

Before he came downstairs the next day, two letters were brought to him. One was from the young vicar of Waynflete, stating that a thaw having taken place on the Sunday after Christmas, four umbrellas had been put up during service, and did Mr Waynflete see his way to a subscription for mending the church roof? The letter was several pages long, and gave a very unflattering picture of the condition of the Waynflete property. The vicar expressed himself with youthful energy, and begged the owner of the property to come and see for himself what had to be done.

And let Godfrey say what he would, he was that owner. The other letter was from Guy, and did not fill half a sheet.

“Dear Godfrey, —

“There is a great deal that must be faced and settled. Pray come home at once, for I must know what you mean to do, and the frost made me so good for nothing that I don’t see my way to getting on without help. I am better now, and Staunton is here with me.

“Your affectionate brother, —

“Guy Waynflete.”

This letter brought Godfrey face to face with his own intentions. If he really meant to present himself before Jeanie’s trustees he must know exactly what he had to say to them. There must be no false pretences. He would go back to Ingleby that very day. His decision, when he proclaimed it, roused a chorus of opposition.

“He must come back for the dance on Twelfth Night.”

“Oh yes! I mean to come back,” said Godfrey, steadily, with a glance at Jeanie. “But I must go home now. I’ve sent off a telegram to say so.”

He got off as soon as he could, and told Jeanie as he wished her good-bye that he was coming back again. But he forgot the rose, and left it in a glass on his dressing-table.

On the next morning, on the last day of the old year, the two brothers found themselves alone and face to face, each determined to say his say; Guy watching his big young brother with quiet intentness, and Godfrey heeding nothing but his own purpose. He spoke first —

“Guy, I must make you understand once for all that I am not going to act under the will which Aunt Waynflete meant to destroy. I won’t profit by it, and it is important to me just now that every one should know that I regard it as a dead letter. I’ve thought the matter out – the thing must be done legally; I shall execute a deed of gift which will give Waynflete and the money left with it to you and your heirs for ever. And I will have nothing more to do with it. That is one thing.”

“And what is the next?” said Guy.

“As to the business, I quite see the difference made by the bad times, and poor returns. I suppose we want more capital. There’s young Mat Palmer. If you offered him a partnership, he might put money into the concern, and would do the work as well. As for me, of course any profits that come from my shares under the first will are fairly mine, as I must bear any loss also. And I don’t wish to cut myself out of the concern. But I want to know exactly how I stand, on that footing.”

“Well,” said Guy, “anything else?”

“Yes; I have practically engaged myself to marry Jeanie Palmer. I made a great mistake last summer in – in – what then passed. That’s over, but I must know, of course, exactly what I’m liable for here, before I can honourably speak to old Matthew.”

“Anything more?” said Guy again.

“No,” said Godfrey, with some dignity. “That’s what I had to say.”

“And what,” said Guy, “do you suppose are the profits of the Waynflete estate which you’re going to give me?”

“I suppose it has a value.”

“Godfrey,” said Guy, suddenly, “I beg your pardon. I did not mean to take this tone at all. But I too have a great deal to say, and it’s hard. I – I’m not strong, you know, and you must be very patient with me while I tell you. And first, I want you to answer me one or two questions.”

“Well?” said Godfrey, surprised in his turn.

“What do you consider was the great object of Aunt Margaret’s life?”

“To get back Waynflete – to restore the family.”

“Is it the same thing?”

“Well, yes, isn’t it? She thought so.”

“She did. Now, what was your object when you made that vow, which I suppose you are now trying to carry out?”

“To get rid of Waynflete, to free my conscience, to do you justice,” said Godfrey.

“You mean that you did not want me to suffer because your proceeding made me too late to persuade Aunt Margaret that she had misjudged me?”

“Well, yes.”

“Now listen. Please don’t speak till I’ve told you – even if I stop.”

Then Guy briefly recapitulated his recent history, beginning with the midnight alarm which Godfrey remembered at Waynflete. He told the awful story in the driest and most matter-of-fact way, showing no trace of the effort which it cost him, while Godfrey listened in utter silence.

“Now,” Guy continued. “Staunton will tell you particulars. I thought it right you should know how I’m handicapped. No wonder our ancestors drank or blew their brains out. Whether you think I have a tile loose or no, there’s no doubt our family went down through its own wickedness, and Aunt Margaret pulled it up again by pluck and resolution. But the business isn’t done, and instead of throwing over Waynflete to me, you ought to do your part of the work she left us.”

Godfrey nodded; he was pale, and could not speak. He was perplexed, but he heard the story with instinctive belief.

“She has set us on our legs,” Guy went on; “but the place is a sink of wickedness, and poverty-stricken into the bargain. I have had letters from Clifton, and I know. Now, I’ve come to see that it’s no good saving my own skin, or my own soul either, while that’s the case. We have got really to restore Waynflete, but I can’t do it alone. If I get too bad, in mind or body, to carry on the business, it would have to be sold, and then He– No, stop. I love the very breath of the air of it! Why, Godfrey, we should be contemptible scoundrels to give in while there’s breath in our bodies, or sense in our brains.”

Godfrey still sat silent. If Guy was handicapped, how heavily had he handicapped himself! Still, devotion to his brave old aunt’s purpose, the inheritance which, after all, was bred in his bone, began to stir within him. He got up and held out his hand.

“I’ll help,” he said hoarsely.

Guy’s hand, all bones and blue veins, met the firm muscular fingers in an equally vigorous clasp.

“That’s good!” he said. “We’ll do it.”

“But, Guy,” said Godfrey, after a silence, “you know, if I’d known about it, I never would have left you alone with a ghost – never!”

Guy laughed. “Never mind that now,” he said. “Go down to the mill, and get John Henry Cooper to tell you how things are. He’s made of just as sound stuff as his father, and is a good deal sharper. We’ll pull round. But you must get your hand in. Some one must be able to go about and investigate openings and offers, and I can’t at present. As for Jeanie, you’d better let that slide, I should say, for a bit. Old Mat won’t be very encouraging, when he knows how it is with us.”

Godfrey went to the mill, and heard John Henry Cooper’s business statements almost in silence. Then he said —

“I am here now to do what Mr Guy is not strong enough to manage. He will direct everything.”

“Ay, sir, so best; you’ll not better Mr Guy’s notions of business requirements; but it’s nothing but your place to do your utmost for the business,” said Cooper, composedly.

As Godfrey went back to his brother, it struck him how strange it was that the two narratives to which he had just listened should apply to the same person, that the sharp, keen struggle for success in life, and the awful mystical combat with an unknown power, should hang on the same indomitable will.

“Guy,” he said, “it’s all right. Cooper’s going to show me about wool samples to-morrow, and – and – I wish you’d let me black your boots for you!”

“If you like,” said Guy, with his odd little smile. “You shall do all the dirty work for me. There’s plenty of it in a mill.”

Part 3, Chapter II
“A Little Hint – A Mystic Flash.”

“Mill House, Ingleby, —

“December 27th.

“Dear Miss Vyner, —

“I hope you will allow me to thank you for your lovely drawing. It gave me a happy Christmas. The harebells say to me all that you would say yourself. They do indeed help me. Again thanking you, and with every good wish for the New Year, —

“I am yours most gratefully, —

“Guy Waynflete.”

This composition, which had cost Guy much pains, was brought to Florella, as she sat putting delicate finishing touches to her latest picture, a procession of snails, walking along the top of a moss-grown wall, moist with a recent shower.

“To take the air, and hear the thrushes sing,” was the motto written below, and, as Violet Staunton had said, Florella must have got inside a snail’s shell and seen the world from between its horns when she painted it. She laid her brush down now, and with throbbing heart held the letter against her cheek. Yes, she had known that he wanted the harebells. She had known it not only because, from one source and another, from Godfrey’s letter to Constancy, and from Cuthbert Staunton’s reports to his sisters, she knew something of his outward life, but from that curious inward sense that told her when a time of special trial was upon him. The inward vision was dim and faint, the very intensity of her anxiety for him blurred and confused it, and the outward intelligence seemed either to render it superfluous or to show how little it was worth. If she could but “see” more clearly!

That same evening she went to a party with her sister. The “willing game” was played, and there were thought-reading experiments and wonders performed with “Planchette.” A lady looked into Florella’s eyes as she sat apart, and told her that she would be more successful than any one in the room. She ought to “develop her faculties.”

Florella’s heart gave a great leap. Could she obtain more power to help him so?

The fear of betraying either his secret or her knowledge of it held her back. That, and an instinct that no stranger should intermeddle with the deep things which filled her with wonder and awe. She refused to try, and saved her delicate spirit from risks unknown. Constancy tried every experiment, and laughed at them all. No influence touched her spirit or shook her nerves. She got hold of “Planchette,” and manipulated it so cleverly, guessed so keenly, and invented so boldly that she took in a whole group of not very wise inquirers, who thought she had developed a surprising power of receptiveness. She laughed and held her peace; but Florella still held apart, and the more she saw, the more she felt that she must guard Guy’s experiences from such intrusion. She found that it would have been very easy to betray them.

It was not in this surface region of easy puzzles and useless surprises that her soul touched his.

In two or three days’ time she received another note from him, hastily written and much less formal in style.

“It has suddenly come upon me that I have been taking your help without one thought of what it may cost you to give it. Why did I never know before that such help, even to one so innocent as you, must cost pain and effort? Never let that be! Forgive my selfishness; the sympathy you gave me seemed divine. But even Divine help costs suffering, and I should be the worst of all cowards, the most contemptible of traitors, to let you suffer with me. You have done so much – enough to win for ever the thanks of —

“Guy Waynflete.”

So then he knew. He knew that, when she fought for him, she too must “feel” the foe. He knew what the strain of self-giving meant. But there was no doubt of the answer. Florella sat down and wrote: —

“Dear Mr Waynflete, —

“I think, if God lets the help go through one, one need not be afraid. I am not good as you think, but I am not afraid. God understands it. I wish I could help more. I am very glad you liked the harebells, and I hope that Mr Staunton will not let you work too hard in this cold weather.

“Yours truly, —

“Florella Vyner.”

Poor little inadequate human words! Florella finished and directed her letter, and then she sat down by the fire and cried very much. She was not afraid, but it was almost more than her tender soul could bear. To be good enough To let every bit of selfishness and silliness and idle vanity be burnt away by the spiritual fire! To think largely enough of so large a thing!

More outside news came through the medium of Christmas letters from the various Palmer cousins. The attraction that had kept Godfrey at Kirkton Hall was freely commented on, and it need hardly be said that it was well to the front in Constancy’s mind when, on paying a New Year’s call on the Stauntons with her aunt and sister, she beheld a tall flaxen head in dangerous proximity to the chandelier, and recognised it as Godfrey Waynflete’s.

“I have come up on business about the mill while Staunton is still able to be with my brother,” he said, after the stiffest of greetings.

“I am very glad to see you,” said Mrs Palmer, cordially. “Do you know I want to ask a question? Are you going to let Waynflete again for the summer and autumn? No air ever suited me so well, and as for the noises, one gets used to them. I found the old horseman at last quite companionable.” Suddenly Constancy broke in, in clear, deliberate tones.

“If you think of going to Waynflete, Aunt Con, I think I’ll make a confession. It entered into my wicked head, when we stayed at Waynflete before, to try the effect on my family of supernatural terrors. I did most of the ghosts that people heard in the house. It’s very easy to take people in. And as I shall probably be in the Tyrol next summer, I dare say there won’t be any mysterious noises.”

“Constancy, can I believe you?” exclaimed Mrs Palmer.

Godfrey came and stood in front of her, towering over her chair.

“I must ask you to tell me exactly what you did?” he said sternly.

“Nothing much,” interposed Florella. “I told Mr Waynflete about it last summer.”

“Guy knows?”

“Yes; he knows it was nothing of consequence. But of course it was very foolish of us.”

“And very amusing,” said Constancy, defiantly.

“I hope the inhabitants of Waynflete were frightened enough to afford you amusement. In that case, no doubt, it was worth while.”

“Oh, amusement is always worth while. I heard you had a most amusing Christmas at Kirkton. And you go back soon, I believe?”

“I should have gone back, Miss Vyner, if my brother had not been too ill to spare me. I have explained to my Rilston friends that I am tied to Ingleby for the present.”

Here the Stauntons and Florella struck up the swords of the combatants by a rush of questions as to their Yorkshire acquaintances, while Constancy could have bitten out her tongue as she recalled the commonplace feminine spite of her retort on Godfrey.

“Worse than any Miss Bennet!” she thought, as the discussions of last summer came back on her memory, and she knew that her sudden confession had been prompted by the determination to make him notice her at any cost.

“So, Florella,” she said, when the sisters were at home and alone together, “you needn’t have been so angry with me for that bit of frivol last autumn. You see he has neither broken his heart nor gone to the ends of the earth, and given up Waynflete to Guy. He has got engaged to Jeanie – and her money.”

“You heard him say that his brother wanted him,” said Florella, after a moment. “How could he go away?”

“Poor Guy!” said Cosy. “He is a nice fellow. I hope he won’t die of his heart complaint! But Flo, speak out! What would you have done if you had had such a letter? I couldn’t tell him I liked him – when – when I didn’t mean to.”

“I think you do,” said Florella, “whether you mean to or not. But you might have helped the best side of him to make amends for what he had done. You left him all to himself.”

“Well,” said Cosy, after a half-offended pause, “if I am a fool, at least I have the sense to know it.”

She threw herself into a chair by the fire, and sat staring into the blaze with her chin on her hands. She, brilliant, admired, successful, had done a small and a stupid thing, and her pride was stung by the knowledge. The sleeping soul began to stir within her. Life had been to her like the music described by hearsay – a sound without a tune. Her clever mind had dealt with words and signs, while the undeveloped and childish spirit had never realised their meaning. If Godfrey, as she had sometimes called him, had been “only a great boy,” poor Cosy herself was still but a great girl, and a selfish girl too, shrinking from the disturbance of passionate emotion.

In such a form she experienced the “conviction of sin,” and the change in her mental outlook was so great that it might well be called a conversion, as conversions come to such as she.

She got the thought of her own shortcoming quite clear in her mind, as clear as if it had been a mathematical problem, or the plot of a story. Then she got up, shook herself together, and went to get ready to recite at a “slum concert” patronised by some of her friends.