Waynflete :: "Waynflete" Prologue. In 1785.

"Waynflete" Prologue. In 1785.

“That the character of the inhabitants of any country has much to do in forming a distinct devil for that country no man can doubt.”
From “John Inglesant.”

At ten o’clock at night on the 4th of October, 1785, the master of Waynflete Hall sat playing at cards with Mr Maxwell of Ouseley, his neighbour and his enemy. By the fireside sat Waynflete’s brother, the parson of the parish, and over the chimney, in the light of the candle’s on the card-table, was the picture of his eldest son and heir. The squire and the vicar were big, powerful men, with fair, bushy brows, and faces that told of rough riding and coarse living, hard weather and hard drinking, the only mark of their gentle blood that frank expectation of deference and service which marks a ruling class. The keener, thinner face of their visitor had the opposite look, that of a man accustomed to defer, and perhaps to flatter, for his livelihood. The face of the boy in the picture was fair and delicate, with eyes that seemed pleading and entreating for dear life.

Outside, all was dark and dreary, a wild autumn wind sweeping over the wide Yorkshire moors, and a noisy river, swelled by recent floods, rushing through the valley in which Waynflete stood. Within, the candles and the fire were reflected in panels of polished oak all round the little octagon-shaped chamber, and showed choice furniture with slender spindle legs and fine inlaying. The common mould candles burnt in heavy silver candlesticks of Corinthian pattern, and the many-times used cards lay on a pattern of thick twining roses worked in finest tent-stitch.

On a little side table was placed a shabby leather case, and a small oak chest with iron hasps and hinges. On another, within easy reach of the card-players, was a plentiful supply of port wine and of spirits.

Now and again, when the tall clock in the corner struck a quarter or a half-hour, the vicar got up and, opening one of the deep-recessed windows, stared out into the night. Then he flung the casement back again in silence, came back to his chair, and he and his brother filled their glasses full and drank them down. But Mr Maxwell of Ouseley only set his lips to his. At last eleven strokes, quick, sharp, and loud, rang out from the clock in the corner. The squire flung his cards down, and the parson swore a round oath.

“Time gets on,” said Maxwell of Ouseley. “I hope Mr Guy’s journey has not been unduly delayed. I hope it sincerely.”

“Do you, Mr Maxwell of Ouseley?” said the squire. “Your hope’s very likely to be disappointed, for my son Guy never fulfilled anybody’s hopes in his life. Not his mother’s.”

And the squire looked round at the familiar furniture, dropped his rough hand on the delicate needlework, and looked with his frowning brows at the picture, the token of his dead wife’s love for her first-born son.

“Time yet, time yet,” said the parson, and got heavily up once more, and flung the window open. The wind rushed in, wailing and howling, and with it a sound as of a horse galloping on the wet ground.

“He is coming!” cried Maxwell; but the Waynfletes laughed.

“No, no, no!” cried the squire; “that horse never draws bridle. He has galloped ever since Guy Waynflete betrayed his friend to King James the Second, and saved his own dirty skin. Ye’ll hear him, Mr Maxwell, when you sleep under this roof when the wind’s up—and luck’s down. Maybe ye’ll see the traitor’s ghost. My son Guy has seen him—or else he lied, which is like enough. Shut the window, brother Godfrey, and snuff the candles.”

“Will you deal again, sir?” said Maxwell of Ouseley.

“No,” cried the squire; “cards won’t bring the lad back. Get your book, brother Godfrey, and read us a prayer. Pray, man, pray! and Mr Maxwell can join us.”

“With pleasure, sir,” said Maxwell of Ouseley, bowing.

“The prayer-book’s in the church, brother,” said the parson.

Then the squire got up and opened a drawer in the little side table, and took out a well-worn book with a red cover.

“There’s the mother’s book,” he said. “Read on. We’ll fight it out to the last.”

Then the parson of the parish turned his heavy chair round towards the light, and knelt up against the back of it, for his bones were something too stiff to reach the floor.

“What—what do you want to pray for, brother?” he said.

“What?” cried the squire with an oath, “that my fool of a son may get here before the clock strikes twelve, and save his honour and his house. Can’t you find a prayer? Read the first in the book. The Almighty’ll understand it.”

The squire leant his elbows on the card-table and his forehead on his hands. Mr Maxwell of Ouseley stood up decorously, and held his three-cornered hat before his face.

And the parson turned to the evening service, and read it straight through sonorously. The words implored pardon and peace, and light in darkness; but they carried but one prayer up to the throne of Heaven, “Let him come.”

Then the parson began the Litany till he came to the travellers by land and by water, when he rustled over the leaves of his book, and behold there was a mark in the prayer for those at sea, which did not run so ill in a storm of trouble and distress. “Save, Lord, or else we perish,” he said, and the squire groaned and said, “Amen.”

And through the storm and the loud rough voice the clock ticked and struck, quarter, half-hour, and three quarters, till at last, with his rough voice shaking and growing thick, and his dull old heart beating fit to choke him, the parson found himself reading the prayer for “All sorts and conditions of men.”

“Mind, body and estate—”

“Eh-h!” groaned the squire.

“And a happy issue out of all—”

The first note of twelve clanged out, and the parson flung down his book.

“Lord help us!” he cried, and Mr Maxwell of Ouseley took his hat from before his face, and waited till the clock had struck twelve. Then the squire got up from his chair, and took up the oak chest and set it down upon the card-table with a heavy thud. He turned the key in the lock, and took out a bundle of parchments and laid them down on his dead wife’s needlework, among the cards and the wine-glasses, with her prayer-book by their side.

Then he drew himself straight up, and bowed. “Mr Maxwell of Ouseley,” he said, “these are the terms on which we stand. This house and estate were to pass to you, my attorney-at-law, in repayment of the loans ye’ve made me, unless my son Guy came back by twelve to-night, ready to sign such other bonds as ye might please, and to marry your girl whom ye’d like to make a lady of quality as well as the heiress of ye’re gains and gettings.”

“Yes, Mr Waynflete, those were the terms, and I regret—”

The squire turned and swore at him, then went on in the same tone as before, “But my eldest son Guy, who broke his mother’s heart, and was too late for her deathbed, is too late to save his father, and himself. I leave him my curse for a coward and a fool. And I leave it for all that come after him to follow in his steps. And for t’other one, brother Godfrey, you’d better take and put him into the Church, if you can; he’s a thickhead, but an honest lad. So there, Attorney Maxwell, take your own, and the luck ye’ve earned go with it!”

And Mr Maxwell, still murmuring regrets that he daren’t speak aloud, closed his long fingers over the deeds. And the parson, the son of the house, put his handkerchief over his face and wept, while the wind rose higher and wailed louder, till it seemed as if cries and prayers for mercy mingled with the thud of the hoofs of the horse that never drew bridle at any door.

Then Waynflete of Waynflete Hall took up his dead wife’s prayer-book and kissed it, then he walked over to the side table, and stood with his back to the other two. “God have mercy on my soul!” said he, and took something out of the leathern box. And there was a loud noise and a heavy fall, and the old drinking, gambling, hard-living squire never lived to see whether his unlucky son came home too late.

But in the gloomy mists of the next morning, while the scared household were watching the body laid out for its last sleep in the room where it had fallen, there staggered into the midst of them the ruined heir, his trim locks wild and wet, his fair face marred and degraded, and his eyes mad with fear.

“The traitor’s ghost—or the devil in his shape—stood in my way—I was coming—” he stuttered in thick, shaking tones.

“To the devil with your ghost! You’re drunk!” shouted the old parson, and lifted his hand.

The boy cowered, stumbled and fell on the threshold. He was indeed too late.

That was what happened at Waynflete Hall, in October, 1785.

Part 1, Chapter I.

The Family.

The splendid sunset of a late August day in the year 1885 was staining the smoky atmosphere which enveloped the manufacturing district of Ingleby with rich and subtle tints.

Margaret Waynflete sat at an upstairs window of a large square stone house, looking across a garden, filled with brilliant flowers and smoke-dulled shrubs, over lovely undulations of wood and field, and unlovely forms of mill and chimney half veiled in tawny, luminous mist, Beyond, hill behind hill, and moor above moor, in endless succession, were lost in grey-gold smoke and fog. She was an old woman, with a line strong face of marked outline, and a tall, strong frame, dressed handsomely in sober and dignified garments suitable to her years and position. Her face was wrinkled and weather-beaten, with the look that comes of facing hard weather through a long life; but it told of perfect health, of unimpaired strength of mind and body.

Nevertheless Margaret Waynflete was engaged in the religious duty of “considering her latter end.” So probably she would have expressed herself, for she was a person who always endeavoured to fulfil any duty that she recognised, and such consideration was becoming to a woman of seventy-six. But what she was really considering was her former life, and that, not so much with a view to repenting her sins, or regretting her shortcomings—though if she had such she was truly desirous of repenting and regretting them—as of shaping the future in such a way that her past work should not be undone by those who would come after her.

She had had a life work. She had attempted something and had done it. She had lifted her good old name out of the dust, and had restored her fallen family to its natural station. And she was intensely proud both of her family name, of her own success, and of the means by which the success had been obtained. When she thought of the day when she should be laid in the old churchyard at Waynflete, she desired as much that the business, to which the restored fortunes of the family were owing, should be honourably and skilfully managed, as that the family name should be borne with grace and dignity.

“We owe the old place to the business,” she said once to her two great-nephews; “and it’s a poor thing to forget the bridge that carries you over.”

Sixty years before Margaret Waynflete had been a fine, strong girl, intensely conscious of her good blood, though her father was but a working farmer, and she herself had had a humble education, and spoke with the strongest accent of her native county. The family had fallen so completely that every one but Margaret had forgotten the fact, and it hardly appeared extraordinary, though it might be sad, when her father’s death left her with the choice of going to service or of working in the mills with her little brother.

Margaret put her shawl over her head and went to her work every day; a fair, rosy girl with abundant flaxen hair, and large, finely cut features. Her beauty attracted the attention of the mill-owner, Thomas Palmer, a man no longer young, of humbler origin, and not much better education than her own, but of rapidly increasing wealth.

He courted Margaret honourably, and she married him on condition that he would send her little brother Godfrey to school. Years passed, of rising fortune which no children came to inherit. Thomas Palmer’s relations were all well established in businesses of their own, and when he died he left everything he possessed to his wife, and Godfrey Waynflete was her natural heir. Already, a little bit of the old Waynflete property, which lay in a moorland valley twenty miles away from Ingleby, had been bought by the wealthy mill-owner, and as time went on, Margaret, in whose hands the mills prospered, recovered it all, and when the house itself came into her possession she took her own name again. Her brother had married well; but he died young, leaving a son who bore the other family name of Guy. He should be the future Waynflete of Waynflete; but again disappointment came, for Guy was killed by an accident three years after his marriage. His young wife died in giving birth to a second son, and the old great-aunt was left with two babies, Guy and Godfrey, on whom to fix her long-deferred hopes.

Sixteen years had passed since that day, during which the business had been the duty, and the family name the romance of her life. She loved both now, as people do love the objects of a life’s devotion, with an imperious demand that those who came after her should love them also; and now, as she sat in her armchair, and thought of her age, and of preparing for death, she was really thinking about the two young lads, whose future fate lay in her power.

The eldest ought to have Waynflete; but it did not suit with her ideas to make him the squire and his brother the mill-owner, as might have seemed natural. The money that had been made in Ingleby Mills ought not to be diverted from their interests for the support of the Squire of Waynflete. He must be a partner in the business, even if the chief management of it fell to his brother. And the Squire of Waynflete ought to be the eldest son.

Such was the view of life maintained by this hard-working old lady, who had never known an idle day, nor a doubt as to the value of her day’s work.

But she liked the youngest boy the best, and believed that he was the most likely to follow in her footsteps. Old people do not always regard young ones with blind admiration, and Mrs Waynflete appraised her great-nephews exactly according to her own measure. She did not know that there were other scales in the universe differently weighted.

So, as she reviewed her past life, she questioned herself whether all her payments had been fair, whether she had exacted enough, and not too much, work from her subordinates; whether she had spent enough money on improvements, or too much on buying back the last piece of unprofitable moor that had belonged to the old Waynfletes; whether, on the other hand, she had ever sacrificed honesty to gain, or failed honourably to fulfil an obligation. And in all these respects her conscience was clear.

And when she thought of the future—she took heaven for granted, as her well-earned portion; but she could picture nothing but Guy and Godfrey in her place, and herself somehow cognisant of their actions. Their young voices, through the open window, disturbed her meditations, as they came across the lawn together.

She rapped on the window, and called to them to come up, and in a minute or two, they were in the handsome, heavily furnished drawing-room, in which their white tennis-suits hardly looked at home. They were tall lads of eighteen and sixteen, like each other, and like their great-aunt; Godfrey the younger, remarkably so. He was the taller of the two, with high cheek-bones and prominent features, light flaxen hair and large grey eyes, with a certain direct honesty of expression. He was still only a big boy, while his brother was slighter, and of more finished appearance, and more delicate outlines. His eyes were also of a light grey, but they were softened by dark eyelashes set thickly on the lower lids as well as on the upper, which gave them a wistful, pleading look, quite independent of their owner’s intentions, and inconsistent with his slightly critical smile and reticent manner.

“Did you want us, Auntie Waynflete?” said Godfrey, in blunt, boyish tones, and using the old-fashioned form of address, in which he had been trained.

“Yes. I’ve an invitation for you, which I’ve a mind you shall accept.”

“Are the Rabys giving a dance?” asked Guy, who was becoming an eligible partner.

“No; this is from Constance Palmer. Her husband was your great-uncle’s cousin. She wanted to spend some months in bracing air, so I let Waynflete to her. You know the old lease of the house fell in this spring. She asks you two to come there for a visit. You shall go.”

“I should like to see Waynflete,” said Guy, with some curiosity, while Godfrey said—

“Is it only an old lady? Will there be any other fellows there?”

“She isn’t old, young gentleman. There are some little girls—or young ladies, perhaps you’d call them—that she has brought up. She says the neighbours have called on her.”

“Is Waynflete much of a place?” asked Guy. “Why have we never seen it?”

“No, Guy,” said Mrs Waynflete. “It’s but a poor place, and while the house was let to strangers—as, indeed, a good part of the property is still in the hands of the old tenants—I did not care for you to go there. Now, you can both see what you think of it.”

Guy gave a quick glance at her, while Godfrey said—

“I don’t suppose it’s jollier than this.”

“Before you go,” said the old lady, sitting up in her chair, “there’s something I want to say to you.”

“Yes, auntie,” said Godfrey, staring at her, while Guy said, “Yes?” politely.

“You both know how Waynflete has been got back for the family. By hard work, and doing of duty, and courage. When my heart is set on a thing, lads, I don’t fear trouble. I don’t fear man, and I’ve no need to fear the devil, since I know I’m in the right. And I never shall fear what folks may say of any course I choose to follow. I’m an old woman, and I tell you that a single aim always hits the mark.”

As she spoke in her strong voice, and looked at the lads with her strong eyes, Guy felt that the manifesto had a purpose. Godfrey listened quite simply as to an improving remark.

“You know how, bit by bit, your great-uncle Palmer and I have got Waynflete back. And I’ve often told you how my great-uncle Guy lost it?”

“Oh yes, auntie,” said Godfrey, cheerfully. “He got screwed, and then made up a cock-and-bull story about the family ghost stopping him at the bridge. Awful bad lot he must have been. Then he died, didn’t he, and Maxwell of Ouseley had the place till he went to the bad, and had to sell it?”

“Yes, he died delirious, and my grandfather was turned out to make his way in the world. So you see, ’twas self-indulgence, drinking and gambling that lost the place, and ruined the family.”

“I don’t think my namesake deserves all the blame,” said Guy. “His father, as I understand the story, got him into a pretty tight place.”

“He had his chance, Guy, and he lost it by his cowardice—if, as some think, he was stopped by highwaymen, or by his vicious habits, if he was drunk. He was a very fine gentleman, I’ve heard; played the fiddle, Guy, and wrote verses; but that was no stand-by in his hour of need.”

“The family ghost, himself,” said Guy, in a slow, dry voice, “seems to have been an unpleasant person to know.”

“Ay; there was a young Waynflete who betrayed his friend in Monmouth’s rebellion, to save his own life. He went mad, and shot himself—as the story runs—so ignorant folk say his ghost haunts Waynflete, and think, when the wind blows, they hear his horse galloping.”

“That Guy who was too late was an awful duffer, if he wasn’t drunk!” said Godfrey. “I’d have got over the river, ghost or highwayman, or been killed on the spot.”

“It’s not a nice story,” said Guy. “I should think Waynflete was haunted by all their ghosts!”

“Ghost-stories are very proper for old families,” said Mrs Waynflete; “but of course no one believes them. There, it’s a disgraceful story; take it as a warning. You’d better get ready for dinner.”

She rose and walked out of the room as she spoke, with a quick, firm step, while Guy laughed rather scornfully.

“What an anachronism the dear old lady is!” he said. “As if all the world depended on Waynflete!”

“I don’t know what you mean!” said Godfrey, angrily. “I think she’s an awfully splendid old woman to have stuck to her point all her life and won it. Catch a highwayman stopping me!”

“My unlucky namesake said it was a ghost.”

“Well, but it wasn’t, you know. There aren’t any.”

“You’re the right heir for Aunt Margaret, Godfrey. She ought to leave you Waynflete.”

“Why; you’re the eldest,” said Godfrey; “she says interfering with natural laws is wicked.”

“If primogeniture is a natural law?”

“It’s the law of England,” said Godfrey, as if that settled the point.

Guy laughed again.

“Ah, Godfrey,” he said, “you’ll always get past the ghosts! Well, the visit will be rather jolly. I’ve a great curiosity about Waynflete, and at least it will be clean. I agree with Ruskin that smoke is sinful.”

“There’s a great deal of rot in Ruskin,” said Godfrey, “and you ought not to say things are sinful, when they ain’t. Plenty of things are.”

Part 1, Chapter II.

The House.

Constancy Vyner was sitting at a table, sorting and arranging a little pile of manuscripts, neatly clipped together, and written in the distinct upright hand of the modern high-school girl. She was dressed in a plain, girlish frock, well cut and well put on, her thick brown hair hung on her shoulders, and curled over her square low forehead in vigorous waves, as if every hair was full of elastic life. Her handsome eyes, of a clear shade of hazel, looked out under straight brown eyebrows, from a brown, rosy face with an air of keen and critical observation; while the straight nose and firm round chin added to her purposeful look. She was tall and strongly made for her sixteen years, and the white, well-shaped hands that held the papers looked as if made to carry out the work which the well-shaped head would conceive. The room in which she sat was as old-fashioned as she herself was modern and up to date, with small irregular panels, sloping roof, and tiny casements, through which the evening sun danced in distorted gleams.

“I think I’m doing well,” said Constancy aloud to herself, as if convincing an opponent. “Ten shillings from the Guide of Youth for the best essay on Reading. I’m glad I was so careful as to what books I mentioned. One must respect people’s prejudices. I have much the best chance for all those acrostics and search questions. The editor of The Children’s Friend has asked me for another story. This will do. The little delicate boy must catch cold in a thunderstorm when his sister takes him out without leave. Shall he quite die? I think not. The district-visitor shall save his life. And this story for The Penny Pleasure Giver. There mustn’t be any moral in that at all! Altogether I have got twenty pounds in the last year, and some of the editors write ‘Dear Madam,’ and don’t find out I’m only a little girl! Something ought to come out of this place. It’s beautiful copy!” she continued, leaning back in her chair and glancing round her, while a certain absorbed receptive look came into her keen eyes, altering her whole expression.

She jumped up, and swinging herself into the deep high recess of the little casement, pushed it open and looked out.

Beneath her lay a wild untrimmed garden divide! by a sunk fence from a large paddock sloping towards a narrow valley, with heathery hills beyond. The sky was blue and still, with long streaks of pearly silvery cloud across the hilltops. A flight of rooks came home to a group of tall elm trees beside the house, filling the still air with sound.

“It’s awfully jolly and heavenly!” said Constancy, staring at the dazzling clouds with strong, unfaltering eyes. “It’ll do for a description.”

“What will do for a description?” said an answering voice, like a softer echo of her own, as another girl, a year or so younger than herself, came in and stood below the window, lifting up a face of almost exactly the same shape, more delicate and perhaps less forcible.

“Rooks—peace—brownish meadows, and blue sky,” said Constancy. “Nice description. What have you been doing, Florella?”

“Talking to Aunt Constance about the Waynfletes, and the place. She says she is glad we have come; the house is gloomy, and she has heard odd noises. Oh, Cosy, do you think it could be haunted?”

“That would be luck!” said Constancy, jumping down. “Oh, I say, even a little noise would do to begin with! If I could only get a ghost, and the way people behaved with a ghost, it would be beautiful! It would do for the Penny Pleasure. Now, Flo, remember, you are not to tell auntie I read all those novels at Weymouth. One must have lovers, if one writes a novel, and I never can understand going into raptures about anybody, so I must get it at secondhand. Let us come down to tea—the Waynflete boys will be coming. Perhaps they can tell us about the ghost. I shall investigate it thoroughly, and if ever I am interviewed by the Psychical Society, I shall take care to give more lucid answers than most people seem to do.”

Constancy and Florella Vyner were the orphan daughters of a man who had never known how to make his considerable talents marketable, or to adapt his style to the Guide of Youth, or to the Penny Pleasure Giver, as self-interest required. He lived and died the vicar of a small town parish, and his two little girls, already motherless and with only a few thousand pounds between them, came under the care of their mother’s sister, Mrs John Palmer, who had married one of Mrs Waynflete’s connections. She was a widow, well off and childless, with a house in London, and she gave all the advantages to Constancy and Florella which she would have bestowed on her own daughters. She was very fond of Florella, and as much so of Constancy as a not very clever aunt was likely to be of a girl who not only thought that she knew better than her elders, but, like Prince Prigio, always did.

Constancy did not mean to be the mere society young lady into which her aunt expected the shining light of the high-school to develop. She had definite ambitions, and definite powers to enable her to fulfil them.

“What sort of noises did auntie hear, Flo?” she asked as she put away her papers.

“She hasn’t heard any. But the servants say there are queer whisperings and rustlings, and the lodge-keeper told them that one of the old Waynflete’s ‘walks.’ Oh! what’s that?”

“The ghost,” said Constancy, laughing, and emerging from behind the rustling, fresh calendered chintz of the old-fashioned four-post bed. “You hear a little faint rustle all round you, then crack goes a panel! You listen for footsteps, and pit-a-pat up the stairs they come. The door slowly opens—”

“Don’t, Cosy; I don’t like it,” said Florella, shrinking.

“Stop a moment, I’ll show you,” cried Constancy, opening a door, and running along the narrow polished oak passage beyond it. The younger girl stood still at the head of the dark old staircase, and looked timidly around her. The wind whistled softly round the house, and stirred the neglected creepers outside, so that they creaked on their rusty nails, and tapped with their long arms against the windows. She felt the bygoneness and unusedness of the place, and a feeling of awe stole over her. Suddenly a sound of eerie sobbing and sighing, followed first by a wild, mournful cry and then by a ringing laugh sounded through the house. The next moment Cosy came running down the passage, laughing still.

“There! See how easy it is,” she said. “That’s how ghost-stories are hatched. I can make up a beauty for Waynflete, and study the results. Bless me! is it ringing the door-bell? No, that must be the Waynflete boys arriving. Come along, Flo, we’ll be ready to receive them.”

Mrs John Palmer, kind, pretty, and easy-mannered, was a charming hostess, and the two lads had not been many minutes in the long, low drawing-room of the ancestral home that was so strange to them before she had set them quite at their ease. She pointed out to them the quaint old furniture, some of which must have been in Waynflete Hall before it was sold, and praised the old panelling and the low ceiling, with big black beams running across it. Then she encouraged them to talk about themselves, found out that they were both at a great public school, but that Guy was just going to Oxford. He was musical, and meant to read for honours, while Godfrey, besides being well up in the school, had done everything in the way of athletics which was possible at sixteen.

Then she proposed that the girls should show them round the place; and the four young people went out together, across a lawn cut up by odd-shaped flower-beds, full of old-fashioned flowers, “inconvenient, but unique,” as Constancy said, moving towards the paddock, where they discovered the possibility of making a tennis-ground.

The two boys were soon congenially employed in stepping it out, and they all grew intimate over their respective experiences of the game, and of other occupations and amusements. Florella was a kind and cheerful girl, wishful of giving pleasure; and Constancy, though she watched the two Waynfletes keenly, and “studied” them as she talked with spirit, was not at all occupied with her own relations to them; and, as Godfrey remarked afterwards, “was more like a fellow than a girl, except that she talked about the work her form was doing, which a fellow never wanted to do.”

The four found their way into the old kitchen garden, with lavender and rosemary bushes nearly as tall as themselves, and wildernesses of untrimmed raspberries, which, in that northern country, were still bearing large specimens of red and white berries. Then, through a gate in the old stone wall, they came out into the stables and farm-buildings, picturesque and woefully tumble-down.

“Shabby old place,” said Godfrey, contemptuously; but Guy already knew that the whole scene was fastening itself on his affections. He had never liked any other so much. Constancy watched his soft gazing eyes and satirical little smile as they turned round to the entrance of the farmyard where were a pair of large iron gates with handsome stone gate-posts. Beyond was the remains of an avenue of elms, leading through rough, sunlit fields.

“The river is down there,” said Constancy. “I believe this used to be the entrance.” And Guy instantly thought of his unhappy namesake riding up to the gates—too late. A vivid picture presented itself to his eyes.

“Is that the church?” asked Godfrey, pointing to a little grey building low down at one side; while Guy said, “Let us go and see where our ‘rude forefathers sleep.’”

“Isn’t it like a slug?” said Cosy.

The comparison was not romantic, but it was apt. The long, low, moss-grown church seemed to cling to the uneven, heaped-up ground. An old woman was cleaning it, and the young people went in.

The church was dark, damp, and cold, but a flood of yellow sunlight streamed through the open door and fell upon a flat stone at the entrance on which was no name, but only a date, “1785,” and two words—“Too Late.”

“Cruel!” ejaculated Guy, and caught himself up.

“Eh, sir,” said the old woman, coming forward with a curtsey; “there be the last o’ t’owd Waynfletes, him as saw some’at and died raving. Here outside’s fayther, as shot hisself, and could na’ lie in t’kirkyard, so’s brother, t’vicar, laid un here in t’field and pu’d t’wa’ doon, and built ’t oop agen, round ’s tomb. Here a ligs.”

She led them out among the heaped-up graves, and showed them a round excrescence in the churchyard wall, within which was an old-fashioned oblong tombstone.

A tall, fair-haired, young man, with a lanky figure and stumbling steps, went before them, as if doing the honours of the dreary neglected place.

“Yon’s soft Jem Outhwaite,” said the old woman in a whisper. “He’ve seen t’owd genleman—him as walks, sir. He seed un when he wor a laddie, and went silly. He maks a bit o’ brass by fetchin’ and carryin’ fer t’sexton and me.”

“Soft” Jem touched his hat and grinned cheerfully. Guy gave him a shilling, and the old woman another, with youthful lordliness but he disliked the sight of these dishonoured graves more than he could have supposed possible, and the poor delighted softy, tying up his shilling in an old spotted handkerchief made a vivid impression on him.

Part 1, Chapter III.

The Inheritance.

Constancy made Godfrey tell her all the story of the loss of Waynflete, of the traitor’s ghost, and of the Guy who was too late, as they walked home round the paddock, and looked down over Flete Edge to the river Flete at the bottom of the valley. A rough, ill-grown plantation covered the steep descent, while scattered cottages were planted on the equally steep hill opposite to them. Guy studied it with silent interest, while Godfrey compared it unfavourably with the Ingleby valley, and scoffed at the legends which he was repeating.

“Ghosts are all bosh,” he said, with decision.

“Well, there are some odd noises at Waynflete,” said Constancy, as they reached the house. “Now, come and see a picture. It must be this wretched Guy who was too late.”

She took them upstairs to the extreme end of the wing of the house next the stables. Here, with windows looking out three ways, was a little octagon room, with polished oak floor, and scanty old-fashioned furniture. Over the chimney was the head of a handsome fair-faced youth, with the last rays of sun falling on his face.

“I declare, Guy,” said Godfrey, “he’s uncommonly like you, especially about the eyes.”

“I dare say,” said Guy, but the likeness annoyed him.

“He looks very sad, poor fellow,” said Florella, softly; while Constancy looked from one to the other, and thought, “I’ve got a lot of ‘study.’” Rooms had been assigned to the two boys at the other end of this same wing of the house, opening into each other, as was the way of rooms at Waynflete.

Godfrey went to bed, thinking that he did not much like these old legends and old scandals; and as for ghosts, the idea was too ridiculous! Still, there were certainly an odd variety of nocturnal noises at Waynflete—scratch, tap—rats and mice? Then a low murmuring and sobbing—the wind? He stuck his candle in the open window, and the flame hardly stirred. There was an interval of silence, and he got into bed and fell asleep as he ran through in his mind all the causes of mysterious noises—distant trains, coughing sheep, scraping creepers, pecking pigeons, whistling wind, scratching mice, etc, etc.

He was awakened by a violent clutch on his shoulder, and starting up saw, in the stream of moonlight from the window, his brother, half dressed and deadly pale, who fell on his knees beside him, hiding his face and grasping him so tightly that he was hardly able to move.

“Guy—I say! Guy! Good Lord, what’s the matter with you? Ill? Got the nightmare? I say—let go—I can’t stir!”

Guy loosened his hold after a moment or two, but he shook from head to foot, and Godfrey, tumbling out of the bed, pushed him up on to it, and stood staring at him as he lay with hidden face.

“What the dickens is the matter with you? I say, Guy! Can’t you speak?”

There was no answer, and Godfrey bethinking himself that cold water was supposed to be an appropriate remedy for sudden ailments, plunged his sponge into the water-jug, and soused it on his brother’s head. It was so far effectual that Guy began to fetch his breath again, in long sobbing gasps, while Godfrey, to his increased horror, felt that there were tears on the face that was pressed against his hand.

“Oh, I say, Guy! I say—what is making you such an awful duffer? What is the matter with you?”

Poor Guy shivered and trembled, perhaps not finding Godfrey’s method very helpful; but he came more to himself by degrees, asked for some water to drink, and pulled the coverings round him.

“Didn’t you see—him?” he whispered at last. “See—see what? Oh, I say! Guy, you haven’t been dreaming of the ghost? Oh, I say! how can you be such a duffer! You’re as bad as when you used to climb into my crib, and Auntie Waynflete whipped you, after that nursemaid made the bogie and scared you.” What difference it might have made to Guy Waynflete if, at that moment of terrible experience he had had some comprehending friend to soothe and sustain him, it is impossible to say; as it was, his boyish pride and self-consciousness began to revive, under his brother’s rough dealing; he made an effort to pull himself together, laughed in an odd, startling way, and said—

“Dreaming! Yes, of course I was dreaming. Don’t you ever say one word about it.”

“Not I,” said Godfrey. “A nice story it would be to get about. Now, am I to go into your room, and sleep with the ghost? It’s getting chilly.”

Guy raised himself on his arm, and stared out into the moonlight.

“No,” he said, “I’ll go back myself. You’ll never hear another word about it.”

He got up, still tremulously, and went away, shutting the door behind him.

Godfrey was but a boy, with all the callous stupidity of his sixteen years. He thought that the incident had been very odd, and rather disgraceful to Guy’s manhood. He was glad it was over, and he tumbled back into bed again, and went to sleep.

Guy looked much paler than usual the next morning, but confessed to nothing amiss. As he went out with the others to join in trying the new tennis-ground, he saw Florella, standing a little apart from the others, evidently just getting over a fit of crying.

“I say—can I help you about anything?” he said, good naturedly.

“No,” said Florella, turning upon him a pair of translucent eyes, almost as steadfast as Constancy’s, and even more candid. “I—I—I’ve been helping to do something wrong—that’s all.”

She ran away before he could speak; but, surprised as he was, there remained in his mind the feeling that somehow she was a nice little girl.

Godfrey heard no more of Guy’s midnight adventure during the remaining three days of the visit. The time passed pleasantly, and the aged vicar of the parish and one or two of the neighbouring gentlemen called formally on “Mr Waynflete.” The recognition pleased Guy, or at least that part of him which was free to care about it. He had very little to say to his aunt when they came back about Waynflete, speaking of it in a satirical, rather contemptuous fashion, which annoyed her very much; while Godfrey described it fully, though he staunchly declared that he liked Ingleby best.

Shortly afterwards Guy had a sharp attack of illness. He had never been quite so strong as his brother, and he did not recover from its effects for some time. Mrs Waynflete had little patience with any ailment less definite than the measles, and thought him fanciful and self-indulgent.

She was also much put out by Mrs John Palmer’s complaints of odd and unaccountable noises at Waynflete, which upset her nerves and frightened her servants. But for these, she would have liked to take the house again next summer, as the air suited her, and she was glad to be near her husband’s family. As it was, she did not feel able to settle down comfortably.

Mrs Waynflete thought Constance Palmer would have had more sense. She let Waynflete Hall to a working farmer, with directions to look after the house carefully, and keep it dry.

Nothing more was heard of mysterious noises, and Guy and Godfrey did not see the place again for nearly five years, when the farmer’s tenancy had come to an end.

Part 1, Chapter IV.

Hereditary Foes.

“Very few people appreciate the feeling of a place. Hardly any one can feel the London atmosphere,” said Constancy Vyner, one Sunday afternoon nearly five years after the events last recorded, as she sat drinking tea on a balcony in a square on the London side of Kensington.

“I shouldn’t have thought our atmosphere so ethereal as to be imperceptible to any one,” said a young man who formed one of the party.

“That’s a most obvious remark, Mr Staunton; but I didn’t mean fogs. I don’t believe the country ever gives one just such a feel of summer as there is now. Hot air, balcony-flowers, rustling brown trees, they’re drier and more papery than country ones; sunny dust, dusty sun, and people, pavements, and omnibuses, and undergrounds—and smart fashionable clothes. It’s so summery! Nobody’s got the idea exactly,” she said. “Of course Dickens has a London feel; but that’s on another level, ghastly and squalid—or best parlour and hot-buttered toast; nor does it quite belong to the swells, though it has fashion and the season in it, too.”

“Your idea is coming?” said Mr Staunton, watching her curiously.

“I’ve got it!” said Constancy, sitting up with a broad smile of pleasure. “It’s modern—it’s democratic. It’s life’s fulness, roses, strawberries, sun, summer—got with some trouble, for the many. So there’s a little dust. You have the best of everything—music, parties; but you go by the underground!”

When Constancy was present, she always took the stage—or, rather, people gave it to her—she commanded attention. She was now at college, thinking, talking, making friends according to her wont, and though her literary ambitions were necessarily much in abeyance, she wrote, now and then, an article or short story, which had just the distinction that wins acceptance, and was not quite like every one else’s.

The youngest Miss Staunton was a college friend, and Constancy was intimate with her family, which consisted of two or three sisters, all busy with various forms of self-help and self-expression, and of the brother now present. The whole party lived harmoniously together, on a conjunction of small incomes, on terms of mutual independence, and, as Constancy epigrammatically put it, “went into society in the underground,” and into very good society too, which is no doubt a modern and democratic development.

“Don’t let us collect material for magazine articles,” said Violet Staunton; “but let us settle about the reading party. Cuthbert has heard of a jolly old-fashioned place on the moors up above Rilston, in Yorkshire, within reach of all kinds of fine scenery.”

“Rilston!” interposed Constancy. “We stayed once with Aunt Connie, at a place near there—Waynflete.”

“How odd!” said Violet. “It was from Mr Waynflete that Cuth heard of the place.”

“Guy Waynflete is a friend of mine,” said Mr Staunton. “I stayed with him once at Ingleby. We came upon Moorhead in our walks, and I should think it might suit for the preparation of future double firsts and senior-wranglers.”

“Thank you, Mr Staunton,” said Constancy, frankly rising to the bait. “I dare say you would expect to find us crocheting antimacassars!”

A little more discussion followed as to ways and means, and as to the number of the party, which was to consist of Constancy and her sister, of the eldest and youngest Miss Stauntons, and of two other college students.

“I should like to see Waynflete again,” said Constancy; “it was a lovely old place—haunted, too. The family lost it to a villain called Maxwell, and the old lady who has it now bought it back again.”

“I never heard anything of the family history from Waynflete,” said Cuthbert Staunton, “beyond the fact that the old place had been recovered. But I believe we are connected with some Yorkshire Maxwells. Do you know any particulars of the ‘villain,’ Miss Vyner?”

“You, descended from the hereditary foe, and friends with Guy Waynflete, without knowing it? How splendid!” said Constancy, sitting upright. “This is the story.”

And with exact memory and considerable force she related the legend of the loss of Waynflete as she had heard it five years ago from Godfrey; putting in a vivid description of the eerie old house, and the still more eerie picture of the unhappy heir, concluding with—

“The eldest one was so like the picture. He is in the business now, isn’t he? I heard he didn’t take a good degree. And Godfrey was such a big boy.”

“Well, he is a very big boy still,” said Cuthbert Staunton, who had listened with much interest. “He is a fine fellow, still at Oxford. Guy is made of rather complex stuff. Perhaps you may see him—he is in London, and I asked him to look in to tell my sisters about this moorland paradise.”

As he spoke there was a movement, and a fair, slight young man came in, whom Cuthbert greeted cordially, and introduced as Mr Waynflete.

The five years had not greatly changed him. He had the same slightly supercilious manner and the same “pretty” wistful eyes, into which, at the sight of Constancy, there came a startled look.

“I remember Waynflete so well,” she said, after the greeting. “Is it as delightful as ever?”

“I have never seen it since,” said Guy; “but the lease is out this year, and I believe some of us are to go and inspect it. Moorhead is eight or ten miles off—up on the moors.”

“Will you tell us about it, Mr Waynflete,” said the elder Miss Staunton. “We want to go in August. Is it a place where we are likely to be shot, or glared at by indignant keepers, if we walk about? We shouldn’t like to be a grievance—or to be treated as one.”

“No,” said Guy, with a smile. “It’s only the fringe of the moor, and there are very few grouse there. I think you’d be tolerated, even if you picked bilberries and had picnics.”

“That’s just what we want to do,” said Constancy, “picnics on improved principles. But we shall each have an etna, we shan’t trust to sticks and a gipsy-kettle.”

“I don’t know how young ladies amuse themselves when they’re not reading,” said Guy. “But there’s nothing to do at Moorhead. It’s two miles from High Hinton, and four from Kirk Hinton, and nine from Rilston—and it mostly rains up there. But Mrs Shipley’s very good at scones and tea-cakes, and the view is first-class of its kind.”

“Then, when it rains, we can put on our mackintoshes, and walk two—or four—miles to buy postage stamps,” said Constancy, rising. “Good-bye, Kitty, I must be going. Mind you look up your duties as chaperon and eldest of the party. Mr Waynflete, I’m sure my aunt will be delighted to see you if you like to call. We are at home on Tuesdays—12, Sumner Square. Mr Staunton, perhaps we shall see you too?”

The young men made proper acknowledgments, and when Constancy, with no ladies’ last words, had taken her departure, Guy stated that he wished to hear the evening service at Westminster, and asked his friend to walk there with him by way of the Thames Embankment.

Cuthbert Staunton was a man with a history, and rather a sad one. He had been engaged to be married to a girl who had died within a week of the wedding-day. In the first shock of his trouble, he threw up his appointment, a recorder-ship which had been obtained for him by some legal connections, and went off on an aimless wandering, which greatly exhausted his small means, and put him out of the running for the prizes of life. He quieted down in time, however, his trouble receded into the background, and he came back to the family home, settled down, as his sisters said, into a regular old bachelor, with set little tastes and set little ways, a quiet, contented face, and a very kind heart. He had much cultivation and some literary power, and felt himself more fortunate than he could have hoped in being employed by his University as an Extension lecturer on literature and modern history. In this way he obtained interesting occupation, and a sufficient addition to his income for his very moderate wants.

Now, at two and thirty, no one would have suspected him of having had a “Wanderjahr” in his life; but perhaps it was from an under-sense of sympathy with a not very lucky person that he had taken to Guy Waynflete; when he had met him first abroad, and then at Oxford, a year or two before the present occasion.

For Guy was a person who did not get on well with life, he experienced and caused a great many disappointments. Once or twice at important examinations some sudden illness had come in his way and spoiled his chances. Such, at least, was his own account of his ill success, when he was pressed to give one. With other engagements he was apt, his friends said, to fail to come up to the scratch. If he undertook to play cricket, sometimes he did not turn up, and sometimes he played badly. He was musical enough to be a coveted member of various clubs and societies, but his performances could never be calculated on, and were sometimes brilliant and sometimes disappointing. There were times when his friends could make nothing of him, and no one felt really to know him. Cuthbert Staunton did not know much about him, he suspected him of more uncertain health than he chose to confess, and had discovered that the home life was not smooth for him. But he did not want to bring his own past into the present, or to inquire into Guy’s. He found him congenial, in spite of the eight or nine years between them, and did not think that his various shortcomings were due to any discreditable cause.

“You are doing your London?” he said, as they started.

“Yes,” said Guy, “I’ve hardly ever been in town. You know we haven’t many friends who can be said to be in London society. Most of the Ingleby neighbours come up for three weeks to a good hotel, and do pictures and theatres, and visit each other a little. I am sent up now to ‘make my way’ with some of our city business connections.”

“By the way,” said Staunton, “what Maxwells were those who seem to have been rather unpleasantly connected with your family history? My mother was a Yorkshire Maxwell.”

“Was she?” said Guy.

He was quite silent for a noticeable moment, then he said, with the little ring in his voice which people called satirical, “This is very interesting. Did your mother come from the Rilston neighbourhood? When we’ve settled the fact, we can consider of our future relations to each other.”

The Stauntons were not people of pedigree; but Cuthbert produced facts enough to prove that his mother had really belonged to a family which had originally owned a small estate called Ouseley, not far from Rilston.

“That’s the place,” said Guy.

“But as for Waynflete,” said Cuthbert, “my forefather must have had to drop it again pretty quickly. I suppose he played cards too often. I never heard of its having been in the family. My grandfather Maxwell was a country doctor, and didn’t think family traditions consistent with hard work. I never thought about the matter, till Miss Vyner was so much excited at discovering your hereditary foe.”

“I don’t myself care about traditions,” said Guy, in a slow, soft, argumentative tone that told of his county. “I don’t, you know, unfortunately share my aunt’s profound respect for the house of Waynflete. She is an ancestor worth having, I grant you I think, if she knew, she’d make a Christian effort to receive you kindly; but we won’t tell her. As for me, I object to feuds and obligations—and—ghosts, and heredity’s a hobby that’s overridden nowadays. We won’t part for ever.”

He turned his soft eyes round on his friend, with a smile, but Staunton, who had spoken without a serious thought, saw with surprise that he had thought the avowal necessary.

“Well, my dear boy,” he said, “I’m glad you don’t say, ‘Here’s Vauxhall Bridge and there’s Vauxhall Bridge Road—take the tram, I take the ’bus. Farewell.’ But we must hurry up; it’s getting late.”

When they came into the Abbey, Guy looked all round him in a searching, attentive way. He joined in the singing with a voice full and sweet enough to do justice to his Yorkshire blood, and when it was over, and they parted, said, as if it was a thing to be thankfully noted, “I have very much enjoyed it.”

When, on the Tuesday afternoon, the two young men appeared in Mrs Palmer’s handsome drawing-room, it was full of other visitors, and their entertainment fell at first to Florella’s share. Her figure, as she sat a little apart by a table covered with the usual knick-knacks and flowers, had a harmonious and pictorial effect which caught Guy’s fancy and remained in his memory. She was still very like Constancy, but with softened tints; hair and eyes had not the same bright chestnut hue, but were of a dim shady brown; she was paler, and though her young outlines were plump and full, they had an indescribable grace and softness. She had Constancy’s straight brows and square forehead; but the eyes beneath were of another but equally modern type, seeking, longing, as the eyes of Fiametta or of the Blessed Damozel herself, but with this difference: they were happy as if in faith that a good answer waited their questioning. Florella did not talk, or learn, or do, as much as Constancy; but she knew all about learning and doing, and, in a girlish way, lived in the face of the questions of her time. She had one gift, too, which was likely to bring her much joy, and to this, after a few commonplaces, Cuthbert turned the conversation.

“And your painting, Miss Vyner? Has it been getting on?”

“Yes,” said Florella, “I have been having lessons.”

“May we see?”

Florella, without any excuses or shyness, took a little portfolio from the table, and showed some sketches of flowers in water-colour. The execution was slight and not perfectly skilful; but each little drawing had a characteristic suggestiveness which freed it entirely from the inexpressible dulness of most fruit and flower pieces.

A bunch of growing sweet peas labelled, “A tiptoe for a flight,” had the summer breeze blowing through them; “Pure lilies of eternal peace,” had a certain dreamy, unearthly fairness that suggested “airs of heaven,” and “A bit of green” was a cheerful, struggling plant of flowering musk, in sooty soil, on a smutty window-sill, with a yellow fog behind it.

“Why, that’s just how flowers look against smoke,” said Guy. “They glare with brightness.”

“Ah, that’s what I meant!” said Florella, pleased. “Do you draw, Mr Waynflete? You are fond of pictures?”

“I can’t draw,” said Guy; “but I can write down faces in pen-and-ink outline. I can’t make pictures. I don’t think I enjoy them.”

“Waynflete likes music,” said Cuthbert; “that is more in his line.”

“Tunes often put drawings into my head,” said Florella, simply. “The time when I began to do flower pictures was at Waynflete,” she added. “Some of the flowers there looked so wonderfully old; and age is a very difficult sentiment to convey in a flower! I never could manage it.”

As she spoke, there was a movement among the guests, and Mrs Palmer caught the name.

“Ah, Waynflete!” she said. “It was such a delightful old place, and so bracing. I should have liked to stay there very much, but the noises were such a worry. I declare when I sat in that old drawing-room by myself in a summer evening, I used to feel quite creepy. Mr Waynflete, do tell me if any noises have been heard since?”

Some of the company pricked up their ears. There are several aspects under which “ghosts” may be viewed, and there is no question that they are both fashionable and interesting. A haunted house and its owner are not often under notice at once.

Guy did not speak very quickly, and Constancy struck in.

“Aunt Con,” she said, “the situation would be quite spoiled if Mr Waynflete was willing to talk of his own ghost—or his own noises. Of course he will not. It would not be the thing at all.”

“It had not struck me that a ghost was interesting,” said Guy, dryly. “As for the noises—”

“Oh,” interposed Florella, decidedly; “the noises were all nonsense.”

“My dear Flo,” said Mrs Palmer, “they are not pleasant when you can’t explain them. They might be burglars or the servants’ friends, or anything. But it’s a lovely place.”

The conversation now developed into ghost-stories, some of a scientific, others of a romantic type. Mr Staunton remarking that cock-crow would be nothing to ghosts nowadays, since they were accustomed to the searching light of science.

Guy stood by the mantelpiece, and fingered a Dresden-china figure in a way that gave Mrs Palmer a distinct presentiment of its downfall.

He looked up suddenly, “Did it ever occur to you to wonder,” he said, as a lady concluded a rather ghastly story, of a white lady who brushed by people on the staircase, and left a cold chill behind her, “whether contact with us makes the spooks feel hot?”

“Ah, Mr Waynflete,” said Mrs Palmer, as there was a general laugh. “You’re very sceptical, I can see. But you’re behind the age.”

She was rather glad to shake hands and say good-bye, as she was anxious to see whether he had damaged the Dresden shepherdess. But it was quite safe, even to the fine edges of its gilt roses.

“He is a nice-looking fellow, but his fingers should have been rapped when he was little to cure him of fidgeting,” she said, when they were alone. “But I shouldn’t think old Mrs Waynflete knew much about children.”

“He didn’t like to discuss his ghost,” said Constancy; “that was why he fidgeted. Family ghosts are personal.”

“Cosy,” said Florella, as her aunt left the room, “I can’t bear to think of the tricks we played at Waynflete. We ought to tell. It’s far too serious a thing to give a place the name of being haunted.”

“It was a very curious study,” said Cosy; “but, somehow, it did not frighten people nearly as much as we expected. And we did not make nearly all the noises that people fancied they heard.”

“We may have set them fancying,” said Florella. “I could have fancied things myself, after you had been whispering and scuttering about those passages. And, remember, I don’t feel bound to keep up the idea.”

“It was rather disappointing,” said Cosy, reflectively; “because the boys never took any notice. I don’t believe they heard us, the walls are so thick. But there, Flo,” she added, laughing, “it was just a bit of fun. And there are times when I feel as if I must—well—kick up a shindy. It’s the shape in which I feel the fires of youth.”

“That’s all very well,” said Florella. “You kick up a good many shindies. But I don’t like making fun of what I don’t understand.”

“I don’t see all the new pseudo-science,” returned Constancy. “I think it’s all a delusion.”

“I wonder if Guy Waynflete thinks so,” said Florella, thoughtfully, as she went to dress.

Part 1, Chapter VI.

Good Comrades.

Under a great copper-beech on the lawn at Ingleby one hot afternoon, Godfrey Waynflete was enjoying the “summer feeling” on which Constancy Vyner had expatiated in London, and was spending an idle hour in teaching his young Skye terrier to jump over a stick. Rawdon Crawley, a name appropriate to the creature’s hairy simplicity, was a long grey object, like a caterpillar, with huge pricked black ears, and an expression which combined guileless innocence and philosophic power. Nevertheless, when he was coaxed, he ran under the stick, and when he was threatened, he sat still and sulked, for the perverseness of his race is fathomless.

“You confounded little obstinate beggar,” cried Godfrey, shaking the stick at him; “you’ll have to learn who’s master.”

Rawdon Crawley wriggled away to some distance, like a snake, then lay with his face on his paws, looking at his owner.

“Eh, Godfrey, ye’re letting that pup get the better of ye!”

“He’d die rather than give in,” said Godfrey, as his old aunt came across the lawn towards him.

The last five years had increased Mrs Waynflete’s wrinkles, but she was still upright, slim, and vigorous, enjoying the presence of her younger nephew, and, possibly also, the elder one’s absence. The expression is rather strong; but Guy was so uncongenial to her that his presence could not be said to add to her happiness.

“Eh, well,” she said; “I like a man that can speak up to you, and has got some grit. I’ve no opinion of limp characters.”

“Things generally settle themselves if a fellow looks them in the face,” said Godfrey, cheerfully.

“Ay, but they don’t always settle themselves to our liking. I’d like, maybe, to look myself back into a young woman; but I’m in my eighty-two, and there’s no help for it.”

“Eh, what, auntie? You’re as young as the best of us,” said Godfrey, warmly.

“Why, I’ve no cause of complaint. The Lord’s given me a long life, and I’ve kept my health and my faculties through it all. But, all the same, I’m an aged woman, and I might be struck down any day. So I’ve asked Susan Joshua, my cousin Joshua Palmer’s widow, to come here and make her home for a time, and bring Sarah Jane with her. She was poorly left, poor thing; and then, if I should have a stroke, there’ll be some one to look after the maids, and make you lads comfortable.”

Godfrey was much taken aback, but before he could interpose, she went on—

“And I’ve another reason for sending for her, Godfrey. I’ve made up my mind to spend some time at Waynflete before I die. So she can attend to the house here while I’m absent.”

“At Waynflete, auntie? But it’s not in any sort of order. Have you ever seen it?”

“Once, my lad, once,” said the old lady, face and voice softening. “I made your good uncle take me there for a honeymoon trip, and I said to him, as we stood on the bridge, and looked up and down the bonnie valley, ‘Eh, Mr Thomas, ye’ll be wanting a bit of land, as the money comes in to ye. Ye wedded me with my shawl over my head, but ye might be Waynflete of Waynflete yet, if ye liked to try.’ And he said, ‘Margaret, if I can give ye your will, my lass, ye shall have it.’ So I educated myself for this, and I kept his house well, and was as saving as was fitting for him and me. But there, Mr Thomas never owned but Upper Flete Farm before the Lord took him, and it was a lonesome thing for an old woman like me to set up in a fine house alone; besides that, I had the mill to attend to. But now, it’s time I took my place before I die. Guy can go and see what’s wanting.”

“Let me go, auntie. Guy does not care about Waynflete,” said Godfrey, thoughtlessly.

“Eh?” said his aunt. But here a rapturous bark from Rawdon Crawley, who had been penitently licking the blacking off his master’s boots, directed attention to Guy’s figure at the house door.

He had had a long, hot journey from London, and now threw himself into a garden-chair, exclaiming with delight at the coolness and shade.

“So you’ve seen the Miss Vyners again?” said Godfrey, referring to a note previously received from his brother.

“Yes; they and two of Staunton’s sisters are coming down to Moorhead for a reading party in their vacation.”

“A reading party,” said Mrs Waynflete. “Young ladies?”

“That’s all quite correct, auntie,” said Godfrey. “Girls go to college nowadays, and of course they must read for their exams. They do, generally.”

“Eh, well,” said the old lady. “I see no reason against it. I never doubted that a woman’s brains were as good as a man’s. I could have taken a degree myself. I’ll ask Constance Palmer to bring them here before we go to Waynflete. They can pursue their studies afterwards.”

“Waynflete?” said Guy, with a start.

“Yes. I’ve been telling your brother,”—here she recapitulated her two proposals. “I’ll get you to go over, and see if the place is in order.”

“Oh yes, Aunt Margaret, if you wish; but I’ve been some time away from the mill, and there are one or two matters—”

“I hope you’ve brought back no new-fangled notions from town,” interrupted the old lady, sharply.

“Well, I’ve acquired a few ideas in conversation,” said Guy, slowly. “John Cooper, no doubt, will show me the fallacy of them.”

“You’ll have to live a long time before you’re wiser than John Cooper. Tea?” as the servant appeared with some for which Guy had asked as he came through the house. “I never take tea between meals myself.”

“It’s new-fangled,” said Guy, meekly, “or was once.”

“Eh, Godfrey,” said Mrs Waynflete, “there’s a plant broken in the ribbon border. That’s Crawley, I’ll be bound. He needs a whipping.” But her tone, as she walked over to the border, had lost all its asperity. Godfrey and his dog were privileged offenders.

“Going to Waynflete is a jolly idea,” said Godfrey; “but Cousin Susan and Sarah Jane will be confounded bores, if they’re to stay here for good.”

“They will so,” said Guy. “As for Waynflete, it’s a great move for my aunt at her age.”

“Oh, she’s up to anything. I say, do you remember waking me up because you had the nightmare. You ate too many raspberries with those jolly girls in the old fruit-garden. That story would be a fortune to the fellows who go in for spooks. Do you ever see ghosts now?”

“If I do, I shall not come to you for protection. You threw too much cold water on that early effort of my subliminal self to rise into consciousness.”

“I say, I don’t go in for that jargon. Give me a good square ghost with a sheet and a turnip, not all that psychical rot.”

“If ever you do see a ghost, my boy, it will certainly be a sheet and a turnip, and by George, how it’ll frighten you!”

Godfrey was boy enough to rise to this bait; though he did not like his brother very much nor get on very smoothly with him, his growls were not much more serious than those of Rawdie at the end of a stick. He was too prosperous to be discontented with his surroundings.

When Constancy came down with her aunt to the Mill House—Florella had a previous engagement, and did not accept the invitation—she found plenty of contrasts to study, and she studied each with equal zest.

She was never tired and never bored, she was ready to play tennis from four till eight, and then, after supper, as was customary at Ingleby parties, to dance from nine to twelve. She waltzed with Godfrey as untiringly as if all her brains were in her feet. She made him coach her up in all the ways of grouse shooting, and then she roused him to fury, by wondering how long the barbaric desire to kill something would survive in the English gentleman. She made much of Rawdie, till a certain proverb occurred frequently to the mind of his master. But she also went over the mills with Guy, and learned how to tell good wool from bad, and what were the processes of conversion into broadcloth and tweed. She picked his brains about her own special subjects, or his. She had been writing an article on English musical instruments, she had worked it all up from books, but there was a bit about music itself.

“What it does for humanity,” she said; “as it does nothing for me, I have to guess it all. You are musical, have I got it right? I don’t have these experiences, you know. There are such a splendid lot of things to do and to think of, I can’t tell how people have time for feelings.”

Guy was apparently as willing to discuss music as Godfrey to defend the game laws, and it was impossible to say whether Constancy preferred his languid, satirical courtesy and soft, preoccupied eyes, or Godfrey’s overflowing vitality, and look as of a vigorous young Viking, with his exaggeration of the high, marked family features, and of the family fairness, so that his old school nickname of “Towhead” was still extremely appropriate. The rosy, round-faced Sarah Jane, who desired to be called Jeanie, and blushed whenever Guy or Godfrey spoke to her, and was always wondering how familiar she ought to be with so-called cousins, looked on in amaze. When Constancy called Godfrey a Philistine, Jeanie thought that a flippant allusion was being made to Scripture characters, and when she talked of writing an article, as simply as of making a pincushion, the allusion appeared as a social faux pas to Jeanie’s idea of propriety. If Constancy was so unlucky as to possess an unpopular taste, she had better have said nothing about it. But the young men did not appear to be repelled, and were both of them on most friendly terms with the visitor, while they regulated their conduct to Jeanie with a propriety and skill which any chaperon might have envied. They were aware of a crowded background of Palmer aunts and cousins, and, though they did not think it becoming to make objections to her introduction to the family, they were agreed on the point of their relations towards her. Jeanie was a good little girl; but she knew quite well which “cousin’s” attention to Constancy meant as she called it, “something particular;” she knew quite well which of the two was the most interesting to herself.

But Constancy took the young men much for granted. She was more struck with Mrs Waynflete than with either of them.

Cousin Susan Joshua—it was the custom in the Palmer family to call the wives by their Christian names attached to those of their husbands—limited her intercourse with “Aunt Waynflete,” to receiving her commands; “Constance John,” as she submitted to be called with a shrug, to sympathetic and polite commonplaces, Jeanie was far too much afraid of her hostess to say anything but, “Yes, aunt,” and “Very well, aunt;” but Constancy talked and listened by the hour together. Her imagination was caught by the stately, flaxen-haired old woman whose strong personality was impressed on every detail of the life around her, whose household must breakfast at eight, and go to bed at ten, go to church on Sunday afternoon, and stay at home on Sunday evening, as by the law of the Medes and Persians. She heard, more than any one else had ever done, of old Margaret’s early struggles, of her strong purpose, and of how the only birthright of which she had been actively conscious had been won at last, since of that she was more than worthy. Constancy noted keenly how impatient she was of any change in the methods of her prime; she saw plainly how Guy’s indifferent manner irritated her, and how Godfrey was the kind of youth that pleased her. It was to Constancy’s credit that she could bridge over sixty years, and see a point of view so alien to her young modern spirit; and Mrs Waynflete was flattered by her preference as age must be by the admiration of brilliant youth.

Godfrey looked on delighted, and drew quite false conclusions; for, if Constancy loved Rawdie, and admired Mrs Waynflete, it was for their own sakes and not for his.

The hour and the maiden had come for the happy, prosperous youth. The vigorous inspiring companionship filled him with delight, the roses of that summer were redder and its sun warmer than he had ever known. Love came upon him with a rush of joyful hope, and, as was natural to him, his passion became a purpose, which he expected to fulfil. He would work hard for a degree, for she would scout a failure. He must win her; but Guy— He was furiously jealous when Guy obtained a monograph on the “Music of the Greeks,” and presented it to Miss Vyner, though it was given openly in the family circle. Godfrey could not dare to give her a bunch of the dark red dog roses of the north country, which he had heard her admire.

He was “over head and ears in love,”—no other expression could express his condition—and when she went to join her friends at Moorhead, and her aunt tired, as she said in private, of making talk for Mrs Joshua, betook herself to Harrogate, only hopes of speedy meetings modified his despair.

The girls’ reading party must come over both to Ingleby and to Waynflete, and Cousin Susan and Jeanie would both want to see the spinster housekeeping at Moorhead.

But before these visits took place, the situation, already strained, between Guy and his aunt was intensified in an unexpected manner.

Part 1, Chapter VII.

The Cupboard in the Wall.

Guy had really returned from London with a “new-fangled idea,” or, rather, with plans for carrying out one long entertained, and with more courage than usual for putting it forward. He liked the business, and had no lack of ideas concerning it; but during the two years that he had been at work in the mill his position there had become more and more difficult. He could not feel himself a nobody, and he knew what ought to be done; but his aunt had given him no place and no authority; to use the idiom of his county, “he had no say in the work,” and Mrs Waynflete thought so little of his powers or of his character that she never received his suggestions with favour. She distrusted him, and he knew it, and to a certain extent he knew why. But he was quite sure of his ground now, and as soon as the visitors had departed, he proceeded to unfold his mind.

He told her, with as much delicacy as he could, but with something of her own tenacity, that in his opinion the two faithful old managers were hardly up to the requirements of the day. He thought that more pains should be taken to follow the changes of fashion, and that besides producing broadcloth and plain tweed, certain classes of fancy goods should be undertaken. This would involve an outlay for machinery suited for weaving patterns, and it might also be necessary to engage an overseer who could superintend the production of this class of goods; some extension of the premises might also be required. If his aunt disliked the notion of alterations in the old mills, there was a little mill near which had been worked in a small and unsuccessful way by a man without sufficient capital to carry it on, who would gladly let it to “Palmer Brothers,” as the Ingleby firm was still called, from Mr Thomas’s father and uncle. Guy adduced facts and figures, and made it plain that he knew what he was talking about; and, in short, showed more of the old lady’s own faculty for business than she had ever given him credit for.

But one of the principles of Palmer Brothers had always been that it was a risky and unsound way of doing business to follow the changes and chances of fashion. People would always want broadcloth and tweed, but fancy goods might lie on hand, and fail to find a market; and, in short, did not suit with Palmer’s way of doing business.

Old Mrs Waynflete sat in her chair in what was called the library at the Mill House, though it contained very few books. She watched the pale, slight youth before her with the most absolute want of respect for his personality, with an innate distrust for his facts and figures, and yet feeling with the first painful pangs of old age that she could not entirely grasp the argument. Guy was talking of conditions unknown to her. Surely the day had not come when she and her good old servants were unable to judge what was the best for the business. Surely this lad could not have pointed out to her what she had failed to see for herself. Surely he could not be in the right.

“Is there any other matter you want to find fault with?” she said. “I’d like to hear your true opinion.”

Guy hesitated a little; but, quiet as he looked, he had the obstinacy of his race, and he could not resist giving his true opinion.

“Well,” he said, “I don’t think the mills are as popular with the work-people as they were once. There are modern ways of attending to their health and their comfort, in which we’re deficient. Ventilation, and so on. But a small outlay would set all that to rights. One must move with the times.”

“So you think John Cooper and Jos Howarth are past their work?”

“Not exactly. I think Cooper’s a good old fellow. Howarth I’m not so sure of.”

“You seem very sure of yourself, Guy. Late hours and days away from business were not the way to make a fortune in my time.”

Guy flushed up.

“I should do my best,” he said; “and I believe—I am sure—that I am not incapable of carrying out these plans. And one thing more I wish to say, Aunt Waynflete. After Christmas, Godfrey will be coming in to the business. As things are now, there is no scope for both of us. With the scheme I propose, there would be plenty to do—if you allow us to do it.”

“You need not to think that all the ideas come first into your head, my lad. I have thought of that. There’ll be an agent wanted for Waynflete.”

Now, this was a remark which it was nearly impossible for Guy to answer. He was the natural heir of Waynflete, but Waynflete was in the old lady’s own power, and she had never dropped a word as to her intentions regarding it. He could not assume that Waynflete concerned him rather than Godfrey; and yet, if it did not, the whole principle of his aunt’s life would be falsified. Besides, the idea was most distasteful to him. He said hurriedly and unwisely—

“Waynflete is hardly enough of a place to occupy a man’s whole time, in any case.”

“Well,” said Mrs Waynflete, “you have said your say, and I’ll consider my answer. But I’ve known the business forty years before you were born, my lad, after all.”

It was the way of the Waynfletes to hide their real selves from each other as carefully as if each one had been plotting treason. They erected quickset hedges round their hearts and souls, as if to be misunderstood was needful to their self-respect. Guy said no more, and withdrew, and he never spoke a word to Godfrey of what had passed between his aunt and himself.

The next day, just before luncheon, Jeanie was gathering flowers on the lawn, when a door in the wall that led to the mills opened, and Guy dashed in, with so white and wild a look, and a step at once so hurried and so faltering, that she ran up to him, exclaiming—

“Guy! Are you ill? What is the matter?” Guy looked at her, as she said afterwards, as if he did not see her, and hurried in and upstairs without a word, and as she followed, scared and puzzled, she heard him shut and lock his bedroom door behind him. Turning away in distress and alarm, she met Godfrey strolling along in the sunshine, with Rawdie at his heels, and a book under his arm, a picture of idle holiday enjoyment.

“Oh,” he said, in answer to her appeal, “Guy is like that if he has a headache. He likes to be let alone; he never wants anything.”

Jeanie still looked doubtful.

“People don’t generally look so with a headache,” she said. “Does he often have such bad ones?”

“No,” said Godfrey; “only once in a way. He’ll be all right in an hour or two. Let him alone.”

Jeanie thought it a very odd headache; but no more was said, though, from Mrs Waynflete’s face when Guy did not appear at luncheon, it might have been argued that his sudden illness told against his plans.

She put on her bonnet, and took her way down to the mill with a step that was still firm, though slower than of old, and asked for John Cooper. She was no unusual visitor, and had never let her hold of the business drop; and as she sat down in the little office, and cast her still keen blue eyes round her, it was more than ever difficult to believe, more than ever distasteful to feel, that her day was almost done. The two old men who had long managed the business, though some years younger than herself, now seemed like contemporaries. She had worked under their fathers in her girlhood, she had seen them rise in office under her husband, she had now worked with them for many years, and with them she felt at one.

Partly from this, and partly, perhaps, from the incautiousness of old age, before many minutes had passed, she had made John Cooper aware, both of Guy’s plans and of his strictures. It was so natural to discuss the crude ideas of the youth with her experienced old friend.

John Cooper was very much taken by surprise. The reticent and cautious Guy had never betrayed how carefully he had been “takin’ notes.” Had this lad really put his finger on the weak places? John Cooper was much too careful to commit himself to a direct contradiction.

“Well, Mrs Waynflete,” he said; “Mr Guy is young, and young folks like to have something to show for their opinions. But, there’s been many new fashions since you and I began to work the business. The old master never held with following the fashion.”

“You can be making changes every year if you do.”

“So you can do, Mrs Waynflete; so you can. Eh, but I’ve seen changes.”

“Mr Guy has a notion of business, too,” said the old lady.

“Did ye see Mr Guy when he came home, ma’am?” said John Cooper, suddenly.

“No; he had a bit of headache, and went to his room. Young men aren’t as tough as they used to be.”

There was a silence. The old man watched the lady over the writing-table between them. He, too, was a vigorous old grey-head, with a hard mouth and keen eyes wrinkled up close. The little room was full of bills and letters and safes. A stray ray of afternoon sun shot through the small-paned window, and showed the dusty air and the dusty floor, and the well-arranged contents of the dusty shelves.

John Cooper crossed the little room, and stood in the streak of sunshine. It shone upon his well-known grey hair, on his shrewd, weather-beaten face, and glittered on a small key left in a little oak cupboard in the wall. John Cooper opened the cupboard, and the sun shot in and sparkled with sudden brilliant reflections on something inside.

“Eh, what have you there?” said Mrs Waynflete.

John Cooper took out a tall brandy-bottle, nearly empty, and a glass still containing some drops of spirit, and set them on the table.

“Mr Guy left the key by mistake,” he said.

“John Cooper! What do you mean?”

No asseveration could have added to the abrupt force of the intonation, as Mrs Waynflete sat upright, grasping the arms of her wooden chair, and looking straight at the manager.

“Mr Guy keeps that cupboard close locked. But to-day he left it swinging open, when he went home—with a headache.”

“Did ye see him go?”

“I came in at the door here, Mrs Waynflete, and Mr Guy staggered past me, and never saw me. He went stumbling out and up the lane. Hurrying and reeling as he went—as once and again I’ve seen him before.”

Mrs Waynflete’s brown old face grew a shade paler, she still held by the arms of the chair, as she rapidly weighed what had been said.

It seemed to her that the fact of the young man’s possessing a bottle of spirits was as nothing compared with the secrecy with which he had concealed it. Nor would he be the first in the house of Waynflete to fall a victim to such a temptation.

On the one hand, Mrs Waynflete had seen it in her father, and feared it for her brother; on the other, there was nothing in Guy’s look or ways to suggest it, save the occasional attacks of illness, as to which he was always mysterious and secretive.

“Lock up the cupboard,” she said, “and give me the key. And ye’ll not say a word of this matter.”

“Nay, not to Joshua Howarth, nor to young Jos, nor to my own John Henry. It’s no matter for talking of.”

Mrs Waynflete put the key in her pocket, rose, and standing at her full height, said—“Good day to you,” and walked away with firm, unfaltering step, across the paved entrance, up the bit of lane that led to the garden wall. She went in through the gate and across the garden, and upstairs to Guy’s room, at which she knocked sharply.

“Guy, I wish to come in.”

The door was unfastened, and Guy stood there in great surprise.

“Aunt Margaret!” he said. “What is it? I am much better. I am coming down for some tea.”

Mrs Waynflete put him aside with her hand, entered the room, and shut the door.

It was a large, comfortable room, with a bookcase and a good supply of books, a writing-table, a sofa and an armchair, besides the little iron bed in the corner, and it was brilliantly light, for there was not a curtain or a hanging of any sort in the room. Such was Guy’s taste. He looked pale still, but quite himself, and there was nothing peculiar in his manner, as he repeated—

“What is it, Aunt Margaret?”

“This,” said his aunt, as she sat down in the armchair, and held out the key.

“What is it that you mean?” said Guy, with a sudden look of being on his guard, and much in the tone of her own question to John Cooper.

“You left your cupboard open, Guy, and John Cooper, very properly, locked it up, and gave me the key. What should a lad of your age do with a bottle of brandy?”

“Confound John Cooper’s meddling impertinence!” said Guy, passionately. “It is nothing to him or to any one what I choose to keep there.”

“That depends upon the use you make of it.”

“Has John Cooper been setting it about that I’ve been drinking?” said Guy, with an angry laugh. “Is that—is that what it looks like?”

He caught himself up with a start, and turning away to the window, stood staring out of it, while his aunt said—

“It’s a matter I’ll have cleared up, Guy, before I answer all your questions of this morning. I’ve known many young fellows take a drop too much in company. That wasn’t thought so much of when I was young. But it’s different nowadays; and what that bottle of brandy means, if it means anything at all, is a very different matter again.”

Whether Guy was struggling with temper or embarrassment, or whether he really did not know what to say, he was silent for some time. At last he turned round, and said ungraciously—“On my word and honour, I don’t drink. I have never been drunk in my life—yet.”

“Then what does this mean?” still holding out the key.

“Sometimes—very seldom—I get faint or dizzy—with a headache—I hate a fuss, and I can set myself right with a little brandy.” There was something in the extreme reluctance with which the answer was given that justified suspicion.

“You ought to see a doctor, if that is so,” said Mrs Waynflete, with much reason; “and when I hear what he says, I’ll think of what you say.”

“As you please, Aunt Margaret,” said Guy. “If my word is not to be taken, I don’t care in the least to be cleared by another person’s.”

“You ought to care how your character stands in my eyes,” said Mrs Waynflete. “Take back your key. I shall judge for myself.”

She looked keenly at the young man standing in the sunlight. It was obvious that now, at any rate, he was fully master of himself, and Mrs Waynflete had lived too much with men, and knew their ways too well, not to perceive that there was nothing in his look to substantiate the charge against him.

Suddenly he looked round at her, in a curious, furtive way—a look which he withdrew at once as she met it, but which startled her. She had caught the glance of fear and suspicion.

“Time will show,” she said, as she left the room. “But I’ll have it all made clear to me, before I trust matters in your hands.”

When left alone, Guy hastily locked his door again, then flung himself down on the sofa.

“Oh, I am a fool, a fool!” he cried to himself. “God knows what will become of me!”

He turned his face downwards with a gesture of despair. There was no one to help him, and he could not help himself.

Part 1, Chapter VIII.

The Skeleton in the Cupboard.

After a few moments Guy recalled himself from his despair, and, turning his face to the light of the open window, began, with what courage he might, to consider the situation. A shameful charge had been brought against him, and an untrue one, and yet the truth was so inexpressibly galling to him that he could hardly bring himself to contradict the falsehood.

Drinking, especially in secret, was a degrading vice; but, however sinful, it was natural, being shared by thousands of poor miserable fellows. But the secret curse of Guy’s life was, he thought, peculiar to himself, alien from and repugnant to happier folk. It was worse than wicked, it was abnormal. He himself would have pitied, but he would not have liked, certainly not have respected, another man who— Even to himself he would not think the fact in quotable words. That he could and did bear his hard fate in secret was all that preserved for him a shadow of self-respect.

A crisis had now, however, come, and his instinctive decisions must be reconsidered. He got up, and, unlocking his desk, took from its most secret corner a little pen-and-ink drawing, and, laying it on the table, sat down, and leaning on his elbows, looked it full in the face. For it was a face “written down,” as he had phrased it to Florella Vyner,—a face almost identical with his own, and with the picture of his unhappy namesake, but neither framed by the close-cut hair of the present day nor by the powdered peruke of the Guy who was too late, but set in wild, fair locks that hung loosely round it, while, through the misery of the large, mournful eyes, there was a look of malice, fitting the Guy Waynflete who had betrayed his friend, and whose apparition had, by tradition, caused the second Guy to die disgraced and ruined. The present Guy sat and gazed at it, till the likeness grew in his own face, and he tried to force his trembling lips into the contemptuous smile which he felt himself to deserve. Once, as he believed, he had seen this fatal face with his bodily eyes, and since then the fear of it, the sense of its unseen presence, the influence of it, was enough to shake his manhood and shatter his nerves, was altogether irresistible to him. He never knew when he might wake from sleep with this awful dread upon him. Never had he been able to stand up against it.

The code of the British schoolboy, backed by the reserve of proud and canny Yorkshire, is not calculated to deal with an abnormal strain on a delicate nervous system.

When Guy first “saw the ghost,” if it may be so phrased, at Waynflete, he had felt its effect upon him simply as a disgrace; and, though he knew somewhat better now, his instincts had never allowed him to treat it otherwise. A reasonable man might have consulted a doctor, and found out how to deal with his own nerves; but down below all Guy’s opinions on the subject, all the explanations which he gave himself, there was an awful conviction of the personality and reality of this thing, which seemed half his double and half his evil genius; and what could any doctor do for that?—while he entertained the most utter disbelief in the genuineness of all modern scientific inquiries into such matters. What! analyse this frightful thing for other people’s benefit?—have his experiences printed?—be regarded as a person possessing an enviable faculty denied to others? No; no one who knew what “seeing a ghost” was like could undergo such torture! They were all humbugs. While, as for religious help or consolation, Guy feared spiritual impressions or spiritual efforts; and whether his trouble was the work of his own fancy, a possession of the devil, or a revelation from the unseen, it put him in a different relation to all supernatural questions to that of his fellows. He kept altogether apart from the subject, never joined in religious discussions, nor let himself speculate on religious questions. He feared, also, all his finer impulses; they touched on the terrible and tender point.

As he was liable to nervous headaches on other occasions than when the fear of a spiritual presence overwhelmed him, he usually attributed all disturbance that he could not conceal to such a cause. Nobody troubled about a headache. Fainting or palpitations might lead to questions, and be supposed to be dangerous. Of course all this was crude and young and foolish in the extreme; but it was instinctive to a nature, one part of which was so antagonistic to the other. It never could have continued if he had belonged to people of ordinary insight or experience; but the spiritual terrors, to which he was subject, were very uncertain in their recurrence, and, in fact, were usually apt to come upon him at some crisis which excited his nerves; and, in his ordinary life at college, he had suffered less from them than at home, when, certainly, his grand-aunt and his brother were not likely to suspect them.

But what was he to do now? If he told, if he could so far oppose his instincts, his aunt would think him a liar, like the other Guy—or mad? That last might be. It was a view of the matter which had not escaped him. As for drinking, well, he might be driven to that before the end. There were times when the brandy was tempting. That was another ancestral ghost that might be more dreadful than the first.

But he could not confute the charge, and, besides—here a much simpler part of the Waynflete nature came into play—he was not going to notice such confounded insolence on Cooper’s part, or such suspicious mistrust on that of his great-aunt.

He locked up the picture, and then, perceiving that it was still only five o’clock, and that the mill had not yet “loosed,” he took up his hat and went down there, walking in upon the astonished John Cooper, with as cool a manner as if nothing had passed.

“Step into my room, will you?” he said. “There are two or three letters that I left this morning.”

Then, as the old manager took up and turned over the letters indicated, not knowing what to say, and feeling his statements to Mrs Waynflete considerably invalidated by the young gentleman’s look and manner, Guy deliberately unlocked the cupboard, took out the brandy-bottle, and held it up to the light.

“Nearly empty,” he said, in his soft, mocking voice. “Here, Joe Cass,” to the office boy, “just run down to the Lion, and ask for a bottle of the best French brandy—for me. Bring it back with you.”

“Lord! sir!” exclaimed Cooper, as the boy departed staring; “if you do want brandy, you’d a deal better bring it down from the house yourself, than send the boy on such errands!”

“Perhaps Mrs Waynflete wouldn’t give it to me; and you see, I like to have it, to ‘put to my lips, when I feel so dispoged.’ Take half a glass of the remains of this? No? Then I will. Now, as to that colonial contract—”

Guy poured out the remainder of the brandy and drank it off. He felt revived by it, and went on with the details of the colonial contract with the most accurate clearness, till the boy came back, when he took the bottle, locked it up, put the key in his pocket, and gave Joe the old bottle to throw away.

“Well, Mr Guy,” said Cooper, desperately; “I ask your pardon if I mistook your condition; but I’d as soon see my own son with a locked-up brandy-bottle as you—at your age. Eh, my lad, it’s a grand mistake ye’re making.”

“I shan’t let the business go to the dogs in consequence, if I’ve ever a hand in it,” said Guy, but with more softness; “but just make up your mind that I don’t care a—” Here Guy used an expression which appeared to Cooper almost as bad a breach of business propriety as the brandy, and added with much bathos, “I don’t care a brass farthing what any one thinks.”

This act of schoolboy defiance was the refuge of Guy’s manhood, which had not learned a better mode of self-assertion. His soft eyes had a somewhat evil look as he watched his routed enemy, and then went back to the house, where he was unusually lively at dinner, and through the evening.

But either the brandy or the excitement revenged itself next day with a real headache, so violent that he could not lift up his head, and which left him pale and languid and without spirits for any more defiance of consequences. Moreover, Mrs Waynflete decreed that he was to go with her to Waynflete.

Guy resented the proposal as an act of mistrust, and dreaded it from the bottom of his soul. He resisted it, and offended his aunt more bitterly than he had ever done before, since he could only put forward indifference to and contempt of Waynflete and its interests.

And after all, Howarth, the second manager, had a violent attack of gout, and Guy’s presence at Ingleby could hardly be dispensed with. So he remained, in semi-disgrace, with Cousin Susan Joshua to keep house for him. Jeanie went up to Waynflete with the rest of the party.

He had got no answer to his proposals, and no definite authority for the mill. Nevertheless, he made his presence felt there, and people began to feel that he was master.

“Cousin Susan,” said Guy, a few days after he had been left behind at Ingleby, “I promised Miss Vyner that she and her friends should see the mills. If it suits you, I should like to ride over to Moorhead, and ask them to come down next Thursday, and have luncheon here. Then I would take them round.”

“Yes, my dear Guy; yes, certainly. I think it would be most proper, under the circumstances; and with my being here, there can be no objection. I’m glad you’ve given me the hint, my dear Guy.”

Guy thought his very straightforward request had been something more than a hint. He had made it partly because he was extremely dull, and wanted a little variety, and partly because he did not choose to acquiesce in the idea that he was out of favour. Most of Guy’s actions at this time were marked by a certain note of defiance.

He set off on a fresh breezy afternoon, when great clouds flung great shadows over the open moor, and the dark green of the bilberry and the purple of the heather were in full glory of contrast. He rode slowly uphill, over wide roads with low grey walls on either side, behind which grew oats and turnips, past strong-looking stone villages, all white and grey and wind swept, till the land grew poorer and more open, and turf, mixed with furze and heather, began to appear, and at length he turned over the top, and came out upon the great rolling moors, here clear and sunny, there veiled in the smoke and fog of distant centres of human life.

As he drew near the end of his ride, he saw a figure sitting on some rough ground by the roadside, and looking up and away at a broken hillock of rock and heather, which, owing to the falling away of the ground behind, was relieved against the sky.

By the pose of her head and the lines of her figure he at once recognised Florella Vyner, and as he came near she saw him, and rising, answered his greeting with a smile as he dismounted beside her.

“I have ridden over,” said Guy, “with a message from Mrs Joshua Palmer, to ask if your sister still cares to show Ingleby Mills to her friends. My aunt and my brother are at Waynflete, but I have been left behind. And I hope, too, that Moorhead is satisfactory?”

“Oh yes,” said Florella, “we are delighted with it. It suits us quite. The others are all very near by. Would you like to take your horse to the farm, and then come and join us? You will see them a few steps further on.”

“There’s Bill Shipley,” said Guy, looking up the road. “I’ll ask him to take Stella.”

He came back after giving his horse to the boy, with a brighter and sweeter look on his face than it often wore. “May I look first at the drawing? What have you found out about the moor flowers?”

“Oh, they are so difficult—look at those harebells on the top of the road, swinging about in the wind—blue against blue. It is such heavenly colour. But I can’t paint them! I haven’t begun to try. I’m seeing them!”

“I see,” said Guy. “Yes, the sky seems to show through. But what do they say? Your pictures all say something. Are they moor spirits?”

“Well,” she said, “I don’t think I quite know. But what I want to say is ‘living blue,’—you know the hymn?—

”‘Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood
All dressed in living green.’

“That gives one such a feeling of spring.”

“Yes,” said Guy, “things growing. And ‘living blue’?”

“Well,” said Florella, looking up at the harebells, “I think it must mean thoughts—spirit, soul, growing and springing, perhaps. They are so very ethereal!”

Florella had much of Constancy’s self-possession. In her it showed in a calm simplicity of manner, absolutely without effort or constraint. Guy forgot himself also, for him a rare pleasure.

“I see,” he said, “I hope you’ll get them done.”

“But they shine so,” she said; “one can’t make them glisten. And the heather is very difficult, too. But that I have tried.”

She showed her sketch-book, containing more flower studies and a few landscapes.

“I should like to sketch,” said Guy, as he looked, and made a few comments.

“But you could, I think, because you can see. And it is very interesting. It is impossible to think of anything in the world but the thing you are drawing. That is all I have. My sister and all of them are just behind the harebell rock—shall we come?”

Guy followed, and in a few minutes they were looking down on a cheery group gathered in a hollow of the ground—five skirts and hats among the heather. One or two little puffs of steam showed where the sophisticated “Etnas” were boiling the water, and in the midst Constancy, in a red blouse and brown cap, was evidently concluding an argument.

“Very likely we might like it as well as they did, if we had the same opportunities.”

“Cosy! you’re a traitor. As if we want young men to come and interrupt us, like those dreadful girls in—”

“Mr Waynflete,” said Florella, descending upon the party.

Violet Staunton, who was the last speaker, sank into the heather with a gasp, and a sensation ran through the party. Constancy stood up and held out her hand.

“Mr Waynflete, we are abusing Miss Austen’s heroines for liking visitors. But, you know, we promised to give you some tea.”

Guy coloured and smiled. He felt a little shy, but much as if he had stepped into a fairy-ring. Away from his own people and his perplexities, he was like another person, bright and gay, and was soon giving his invitation, and asking if Cuthbert Staunton had made his holiday plans, or if he could come to Ingleby for a bit, while he helped to hand round the tea and the tea-cakes, for the merits of which he had vouched in London. Thus, at his ease, he had a gentle, friendly manner and a pleasant face, as he dealt with the eccentricities of an “Etna” which refused to boil. Florella felt as if her short, childish intercourse with him had been longer and more recent.

“There!” he said, in a low, half-shy voice, as he glanced at Constancy, “I’m sure Mr Elton could not have made himself more useful.”

“It is humiliating,” said Constancy; “but that ‘Etna’ beat us! Would it if we had the franchise?”

Constancy did most of the talking. Florella sat silent and looked, as she mostly did, happy. The other girls thought that Cosy need not have made it so evident that she was amused by the intruding visitor. Presently a trap was seen coming along the rough, narrow road. One man only was in it, and as the sound of the wheels attracted his attention, Guy looked up and said, in a tone of surprise—

“That’s Godfrey!”

Another moment or two, and they saw the dog-cart stop at the farm; the driver dismounted, picked a long and hairy object off the seat beside him, together with a large basket, and came over the heather with long striding steps. In a minute Godfrey and Rawdon Crawley appeared at the top of the hollow.

“My aunt has sent me,” he began, but at sight of Guy a cloud fell upon his handsome, joyous face, his air of happy expectation faded entirely, and he paused in his speech. Constancy again came to the rescue. She introduced him all round, remarked with cool amusement on the odd chance that had sent both brothers to see them at once, and as Godfrey refused her tea, offered it to Rawdie, who had greeted first her and then Guy with simple cordiality. Guy fell silent, and watched his brother with slightly lifted brows, as if a new idea had struck him. He was quite cool, and not at all put out.

“Has Aunt Margaret asked the ladies to Waynflete?” he said.

“Yes, on Tuesday. She thought the Miss Vyners would like to see it again.”

“Immensely,” said Constancy. “She promised me to ask us.”

Guy, still looking slightly amused, got up and said that he had the longer ride, and must get back, and would expect to see them all on Thursday at Ingleby.

“Tell my aunt I’ll come over to Waynflete on Tuesday by the first train in the morning,” he said as he made his farewells, and went to get his horse.

Godfrey was desperate. He hated all the other ladies who surrounded Cosy. He hated Guy, who had, he thought, come with the same object as himself. He could hardly bring himself to refer to the basket which he had filled that morning with all the fruits and flowers which he had thought Constancy might recollect seeing at Waynflete. When he did bring it forward, he muttered, that his aunt had sent it, which was not true.

Cosy dived into it.

“White raspberries!” she exclaimed. “Now, didn’t they grow just by the gate into the stables? I hope that lovely garden is as untidy as ever.”

“It’s worse, I think,” said Godfrey, more amiably; “but there are plenty of raspberries ready for you to pick.”

“Delightful!” said Cosy, and Godfrey’s brows smoothed till he looked as friendly as Rawdie.

Presently they all walked back to the house together, and Constancy showed him the long, low sitting-room, full of their books and writing-materials. She took his visit to herself, and entertained him in the most cheerful fashion. But she expressed great pleasure at Guy’s invitation to Ingleby, and finally sent Godfrey away when his cart was ready, with a perplexed and appealing look in his grey eyes, and a puzzled wrinkle on his brows, even while she lifted Rawdie into the cart and kissed his nose tenderly, telling him to look out for her on Tuesday morning at Waynflete.

“Constancy,” cried Violet, “you abominable girl! You behaved worse than any of the Miss Bennets, or Emma Woodhouse either. I’m sure those young men must have thought you were delighted to see them.”

“Well, I didn’t mind them. I could not summon the daughters of the plough and bind them in chains, could I? You are all so narrow minded.”

“Narrow minded?”

“Yes; you should take everything as it comes. The Miss Bennets couldn’t exist without morning callers; but if we can’t stand half an hour of them, we make them of equal importance. And besides, you know, they represent a side of life which exists. We must ignore nothing.”

“It’s a most contemptible side,” said Violet. “And besides, if Cuthbert knows, he will laugh at us. I do want him to see we mean business.”

“I mean business,” said Cosy; “if by business you mean reading; but I like to study life all round.”

“Yes,” said the elder Miss Staunton, “just as you like to study opinions all round, and consider smiling, views which, if they were true, would send one out into a moral and spiritual wilderness. You see the force of nothing.”

“If so, there must be an awfully stupid piece in me,” said Constancy, as if rather struck.

“But, after all, you know, whatever is true, the world has got along somehow hitherto, and I suppose it will continue to do so; so why worry.”

“Look here,” said Florella, “if we quarrel over the young men, we shall be more like the Miss Bennets than ever. We belong, you know, a little to the Waynfletes through Aunt Connie, and we knew them long ago. I am going back to my harebells. Violet, will you come?”

A great many young women aspired to the friendship of Constancy Vyner, and courted her, as girls do court each other. Florella’s friends did not make her of so much importance; but they told her all their troubles.

Part 1, Chapter X.

“The One Maid for Me.”

When old Margaret Waynflete drove up to the door of Waynflete Hall in the Rilston fly—for the old stables were not calculated for the accommodation of valuable horses—she never thought of herself in a picturesque light, nor felt, as Godfrey and even Jeanie in a measure did, for her, that this was the moment for which she had lived.

But she looked round her with the most lively curiosity. When she sat down in the low, crowded, old-fashioned drawing-room, she did not admire it, nor feel comfortable as she drank her cup of tea and looked about her. She scolded Godfrey and Jeanie for expressing anxiety as to the effect upon her of the unwonted journey; for she felt quite strong and vigorous, even while she repeated to herself that it was right for her to see Waynflete before she died. And see it she did, for she inspected the old house from attic to cellar. She went over the gardens and outbuildings, she had herself driven up and down the steep sides of the Flete Valley and through the shabby village, she attended service in the picturesque old church, where a newly arrived young vicar, himself aghast at the condition of his church and parish, only struck her as an unpleasing contrast to the old rector of Ingleby. She liked none of it very much. She was an old woman, and she could not take to new surroundings. Ingleby was home. Waynflete was for the next generation. All the neighbourhood called upon her, and paid attention to her and her nephew.

Godfrey was well aware that his position, as apparent master of the house, was an awkward one. He would also have preferred Jeanie’s absence; the new neighbourhood would draw conclusions, which his downright old aunt would never have anticipated. He meant, when the visit of the Moorhead party was safely over, to write to Guy and to offer to change places with him; but, when he found him at Moorhead before him, inviting Constancy to Ingleby, and proposing to come to Waynflete to meet her, all other thoughts were swallowed up in angry jealousy. All places were the same to him where she was not, and he could only think of keeping his chance of seeing her some time without Guy’s interference. Guy appeared early on the appointed Tuesday. He could only, he said, stay one night, as Staunton was coming to him on the next day.

“As you kindly allowed me to ask him, Aunt Margaret,” he said, punctiliously.

“I’ve no objection to Mr Staunton, you can bring him over,” said Mrs Waynflete. But whatever her own feelings as to the new home were, she watched keenly for Guy’s impressions of it.

He said no word to gratify her; but in that perfect summer day, he, in his turn, noted every detail.

The old house, with the deep and varied tinting of its lichen-covered tiles and bushy creepers, seemed to him, as he stood in the garden, and looked at it intently, to be full of character and individuality.

In his secret heart, he thought, as he had thought before, that the place had a charm altogether its own. How he should like its quaintness and its beauty if it ever was his own, and if— Nay, how he did like it now, and how oddly he felt himself to be a son of its soil—to be, somehow, akin to it. Guy was in all ways sensitive and impressionable, open to the influences that surrounded him, to every change of scene and atmosphere. He wandered round the flower-beds, and looked for the quaint “old” flowers of which Florella had spoken. Could he find any to show her? Yes; there were columbines of odd, dull, artistic tints, roses of sorts unheeded by the horticulturist, and sundry blossoms, somewhat belated in the keen northern air, of which the ignorant Guy knew nothing.

As he looked, Rawdon Crawley began to bark; the sound of wheels was heard, and a waggonette, full of straw hats and bright dresses, drove up the rough ill-kept road that led to the house. Guy, half-smiling, held a little back, as he saw his brother press forward eagerly; he was amused at the idea of Godfrey in love, not having ceased to regard him as a schoolboy. He was not in love himself; but even for him, as he came forward, it was Constancy who held the stage, looking handsome and happy, a concentration of life.

“I am perfectly convinced,” she said, looking round, after the greetings were over, “that this place breathes out a story. It quite talks with characteristicness!”

“I should like to think that you had to do with the story of it,” said Godfrey, feeling his ears hot with the sense of self-committal.

Constancy looked at him, and at that moment there entered into her a particularly charming and engaging little demon, who recommended himself to her in a form which disguised his old and well-known features, and made him come out quite new. Godfrey was betraying himself in every word and look; but to Constancy, whose even pulses had never yet beat quicker for any emotion whatever, his boyish passion did not present itself in a serious light. She might study this side of life a little, it would be amusing and instructive. It has been amusing, ever since Cleopatra angled for fishes.

The result of her study was that Godfrey spent a day of chequered but tumultuous bliss, and that the story of the old house mingled itself inextricably with her own.

For Guy the hours passed so pleasantly that he forgot his dread of the coming night. Not being in any way conscious, he asked Florella to come and look for subjects among the flowers, quite easily. And she came, remembering them much better than he did, looking for old favourites, and showing him which she had formerly tried to paint.

“I cannot do the harebells,” she said. “I have drawn them; but the colour and the light is altogether impossible, and I have had to come down to a little bunch in the rock—quite earthly—but they just recall the others. Perhaps some day, when I have practised a great deal, I may be able to paint the heavenly ones.”

“You made me see them,” said Guy.

“That’s something, isn’t it?” she said. “But that’s why drawing is so good. It teaches one to see.”

There was plenty of general chatter, and the whole party strolled about, ate fruit, and picked flowers together.

A tall fair young man was rather feebly sweeping the garden path. He touched his cap as the party passed him, and said, in a cracked, but cordial voice, “There’s rasps down yonder, sir, for t’yoong leddies.”

Guy recognised him, with a start of distaste, as the “soft” lad he had seen in the churchyard.

“Thank you, Jem,” said Godfrey, “we’ll look for them. This way, isn’t it, Jeanie?”

Jeanie was very shy, and very much afraid of these “clever girls;” she secretly disliked the thought of them. But it was pleasing to find how open they were to raspberries and Morelia cherries, and, in the afternoon she felt a pride in showing them over the house, and pointing out the pictures and other curiosities.

Guy avoided this part of the entertainment, on the excuse of making arrangements about the time of return, and as he came back from interviewing the driver of the waggonette, he found that Florella was in the garden, sketching a bit of snap-dragon on the top of the low wall that divided it from the fruit-garden. Guy made for her pretty blue dress, which reminded him of her blue harebells.

“Do you like the flowers better than the house?” he said.

“I did not much want to go over the house,” she answered; “and if you please, Mr Waynflete, I think I should like to tell you why.”

“Why, have you any reason?” said Guy, startled.

“Yes,” she answered. “Of course it is a very silly thing, and my sister never thought of it but as the merest joke; but I have always felt it was more wrong than we knew. When we were here, we used to hide and make odd noises, to see whether we could make people think it was the ghost.”

“What?” exclaimed Guy. “What did you do?”

“Why—nothing very much,” said Florella, “after all. But we rustled about when we thought the maids would hear us, and stamped along the passages to make footsteps, and hid when any one was coming, and Constancy pretended to sob and cry, and then we watched to see how people would take it; we never dressed up, you know, it was only noises. Of course there was a notion that there were noises, or no one would have noticed.”

“And didn’t—did no one find you out?”

“No. I don’t think that really we frightened any one very much. Of course, I always knew it was naughty, and that Aunt Connie would be angry if she knew. But, as we went on doing it, I got to have a feeling of what it would have been like if it had been true; perhaps I frightened myself, for we didn’t make all the noises that we heard. And I don’t know, Cosy did it quite simply; but I got to feel as if there was something profane in playing tricks with things one could not understand, and it has always been on my conscience. So, as you were here when we did it, and as you belong to the place, I thought I would confess, for really I have always felt it more wrong than many things I’ve been punished for.”

“Why do you think that?” said Guy, quickly.

“Why, I suppose taking false and silly views of great subjects is one of the chief things that prevent people from being really good. Then you can’t see.”

“If you don’t mind,” said Guy, “will you come with me and look at that picture?”

He could hardly tell what prompted the request; but he felt that he could better bear the sight of the picture with her than alone.

Florella agreed, though a little surprised, and they followed the rest of the party into the house and upstairs. They heard their voices as they made the round, but the little octagon room was empty.

“Look at him,” said Guy, “and tell me just what you see in his face. Yes,” as she glanced at him, “I know he is like me. But if you were drawing that face—like a flower—what should you try to show?”

“He looks very unhappy,” said Florella. “He wanted some one to help him.”

“He had no one. He was a victim to himself or his fate. Don’t you think he looks rather a despicable fellow?”

“No; but he looks as if he did so need to be helped. Yes; he does look like a person who might fail in a desperate crisis.”

“As he did,” said Guy. “A man with that face must, you know. Isn’t that what you see?”

“I suppose,” said Florella, suddenly and simply, “that if he had really realised the presence of God, he could have borne—even the ghost.”

“Why?” said Guy, abruptly.

“It would be a spiritual power, great enough to conquer the spiritual fear,” she answered.

“I wish I could have masses said for his soul,” said Guy. “If we were Roman Catholics, I’d ask you to pray for him.”

“Well, I will,” she answered. “He is living, somewhere, and I am sure it is right to pray for him.”

“Thank you,” said Guy, earnestly.

There was a call, and they hurried away to join the others. They had forgotten both themselves and each other. It was only afterwards that Florella realised that she had said unusual things, or Guy that he had heard them. But strange to each other they never could be again.

Constancy and Godfrey had thought of each other, and of the effect they were producing on each other, all day long. Nevertheless, they parted as “Strangers yet.”

Part 1, Chapter XI.

“Striving for Dear Existence.”

In the soft interrupted stillness of the summer night Godfrey Waynflete leant out of his window, and lived over again the hours of the day. The country stillness was constantly broken by the whirr of a bat, the twitter of a disturbed sparrow, or by the homely sounds of cattle and poultry in the farm and fields close by. But Godfrey neither heard nor heeded. He was deaf to the sounds within the house, the occasional strain and creak of the old boards and panels, the patter of rats and mice, which constantly disturbed the slumbers of Rawdie, who slept on a mat in his master’s room. His blood was all on fire; sleep was impossible to him. He could think of nothing but that in two days he would meet Constancy again at Ingleby. It did not seem possible to Godfrey that so intense a desire should fail to work its own fulfilment. No one and nothing should stand in the way of this demand of his spirit for the thing it craved. The whole world was widened, transformed, glorified. Constancy—Cosy. How the name suited her! The memories of that old boyish visit started into life, till the old house seemed to thrill with her presence.

“Talk of haunting,” thought Godfrey, laughing to himself. Constancy was the presence that filled Waynflete through and through. There was no room there for any ghosts! Then suddenly, without warning, there fell upon him a doubt, a fear, a presentiment of disappointment, a change of spirit so complete that it was almost as if a sudden change of atmosphere had swept through the room, and chilled him. A moment before his joy had had hardly a misgiving, now he suddenly felt utterly without hope.

He started upright, and pulled the casement to, for the night-air felt all at once chilly. He shook himself together, and began to pull off his coat, when Rawdie sat up in the moonlight, and began to howl as if he thought his last hour had come.

“Confound you, Rawdie, hold your tongue!” cried Godfrey, himself reviving, when the door leading into the next room opened, and Guy stood there, fully dressed.

“What, the deuce is the matter with Rawdie?” he said, sharply.

“It’s the moon, I suppose,” said Godfrey, pulling vainly at the curtain. “He’s got the nightmare this time, instead of you! I never knew him howl at the moon before. Here Rawdie, Rawdie! Hold your noise! Shut up!”

Rawdie jumped into his master’s arms, his howls subsiding into whines and whimpers.

Guy stood leaning against the door, watching them. He set his teeth hard, as, in the broad white streak of moonlight, the Presence which he feared took, as it seemed to him, visible shape. It was not now a face flashing into his own, but a shadowy figure, with averted head, moving across the room, as if in hurried, timorous flight. Guy’s pulses stood still, but this time his nerves held their own. He waited, and the figure, the impression, passed him quickly by, through the doorway, into the room he had just left. Guy shut the door suddenly upon Godfrey and Rawdie, and stood with his back against it—looking. Then the figure turned the never-to-be-forgotten face full upon him, and it was to him as if his own eyes looked back on him, with malicious scorn of himself; as if this scared and hunted creature were an aspect of himself. He crouched and cowered against the wall, and gazed back at the spectre, but he felt that the sight, if sight it were, was as nothing to the inward experience of the soul of which it was the expression, the despair, the degradation of irresistible fear.

Whether it was a second or an hour before the moonlight had gone from the room, and with it the impression, Guy could not tell; but he knew at once when it was gone, and stumbling towards the bed, threw himself down on it.

There was a candle burning, but the room swam and darkened before his eyes, he was deadly faint, and as the life came back to him a little, the panic which was wont to come upon him, overwhelmed him, and he trembled and hid his face. It passed sooner than usual, much sooner than usual self-command came back, though the throbbing of his heart forced him to be quite still, and took all his strength away. As the power of thought slowly came back to him, the memory of Florella’s words came back also. The Presence of the Divine Spirit! Could that become real to the soul?

Guy knew what one spiritual experience was, and he did not deceive himself into thinking that he had ever known this other. If the door of his soul was open to the unseen, no such messenger had ever sought entrance; indeed, he had done his best to bar the way.

But now, over his bewildered spirit there swept another vision, new and fair, the vision of a human sympathy that might make the weak strong. If this wise girl could know—could see? Before the hope of her helpfulness, his foolish pride would give way. He could nerve himself to confession. The next moment he knew that to lay his burden on the innocent soul of another, to seek a love which must suffer in his suffering, would be of all cowardly methods of escape the most contemptible. He must try to think more clearly. He managed to stand up, and to find the brandy, which, with most pitiful foresight, he had brought with him. He had drunk it before he suddenly felt how significant was the eagerness with which he took it. It was another terror, indeed, and he threw himself down again on the bed and lay half dozing, till with the daylight and the singing of the birds, he started awake, with his nerves all ajar, and without energy enough to undress and go to bed properly.

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.

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.

Godfrey, hanging listlessly about, saw her tall, upright figure, walking steadily over the bridge, and then, whether she caught her foot in a stone, or lost her balance, suddenly she tripped and fell.

With a shout of dismay he rushed towards her.

“Auntie! Auntie Waynflete! Are you hurt?”

“No, my dear, no; gently, don’t be in such a hurry,” she said imperatively, having already got up on her hands and knees.

Godfrey put his strong young arms round her, and lifted her on to her feet, holding her carefully, and entreating her to tell him if she was hurt; while she told him sharply not to make a fuss about nothing, even though, to her own great vexation, she was so tremulous as to be obliged to lean on his arm, and let him lead her back to the house.

“No,” she said. “No, I don’t want to lie down, and I don’t want a glass of brandy and water, and I don’t want the doctor. I want to sit down in my chair, and see if my bones are in their right places.”

Jeanie now appeared, fussing about, and very anxious to do the right thing, but the old lady would not even have her bonnet taken off, and hunted the two young people out of sight, asking them if they thought she had had a stroke, just as they were whispering to each other that, at any rate, it was nothing of that sort. They peeped at her from behind the creepers through the open window, and discussed whether they ought to send for the doctor. But, as Godfrey said, he didn’t know if there was a doctor to send for, such a person having rarely been seen within the walls of the Mill House; and, besides, to act for Aunt Waynflete was a new departure which neither dared undertake.

In the mean time, old Margaret, to her own great annoyance, found herself shedding tears. She was more shaken than she had guessed. She dried them rapidly, and then walked cautiously round the room, to see whether she was really herself and unhurt.

“The Lord be praised, there’s no harm done!” she said. “But I’ve had a warning; and, please God, I’ll take it, and prepare for my latter end. I’m an old woman, and should mind my steps, and not be mooning over the future or the past, when I should be picking my way. If my nephew Guy, like others before him, is but poor stuff, Godfrey’s a different sort. I’ll keep my eyes open.”

She appeared to be none the worse for her accident in the anxious if inexperienced eyes of Godfrey and Jeanie, who scarcely dared to ask her how she felt.

The new will was brought to her, and was duly signed and witnessed. She locked it away with the former one, and with other business papers, in a table-drawer in her bedroom. She was prepared now for any emergency; but, in her heart, she was far from satisfied, and, in the solitude of the thoughts of age, she weighed the two young men against each other with a sincere desire to judge them aright. All the settled convictions, and all the saddest experiences of her life, told against Guy. All her affection, all her inclination, swayed towards Godfrey. And yet, angry as she was with her elder nephew, the tones of his voice, the set of his mouth when he had spoken his mind to her, recurred to her keen judgment, and she doubted still.

On the day after the signing of the new will, she received the following answer to her note to Guy.

“Mill House, Ingleby,—
“September 16.
“Dear Aunt Margaret,—
“I shall not, of course, invite my friend to stay in your house again, now that I am aware of your sentiments on the subject; but I will avail myself of your permission to leave matters as they stand for the present, as I should be unwilling to involve myself in so ludicrous an explanation. Family feuds appear to me entirely out of date. I fear I shall not be able to come over to Waynflete at present, as I cannot leave Staunton, and you probably will not care to see him there.
“Your affectionate nephew,—
“Guy Waynflete.”

This judicious and conciliatory epistle was put away by Mrs Waynflete, with the two wills in her table-drawer.

It appeared to her that Guy, with a frivolity not new in her experience, scorned the sentiments and the convictions which had ruled her life.

Part 2, Chapter III.

Ministers of Grace.

Cuthbert Staunton took Guy up to London to the house in Kensington to be inspected by a well-known doctor, who was also a personal friend of his own.

Guy despatched his petulant little note to his aunt before he started, and, perhaps, it was edged by his own discomfort, for he could hardly endure to be the subject of discussion and inquiry, and, the immediate effect of the night at Waynflete having passed off, held himself with difficulty to his resolution.

“You may trust me to tell him nothing against your wish,” said Staunton, beforehand.

“I don’t think you could tell him much,” said Guy, oddly. “But,” he added, “I wish to tell him that I am afraid of the brandy.”

The man of science, when told that he suffered from palpitations and exhaustion after any “nervous strain,” the expression substituted by Cuthbert for Guy’s straightforward “when I am frightened,” and also of this means of remedy, made due examination of him, and asked various questions, eliciting that he was easily tired, and that his heart did throb sometimes after over-fatigue or over-hurry, “but not to signify at all, that didn’t matter.”

And could he foretell when periods of nervous excitement were likely to occur, so as to avoid them?

“No,” said Guy; and then he added, while his lips grew a little white, “I want to be told how to deal with the effects of it so that the remedy mayn’t be worse than the thing itself. No one can help me as to the cause.”

“Ah!” said the doctor, thoughtfully. Then he gave various directions as to avoiding fatigue, worry, or excitement. A winter abroad would be good, change of scene and occupation. There was no serious mischief at work at present; but there was need of great care and consideration. And with a gravity showing that he understood one part of the matter, severe restrictions were laid on the use of brandy and everything analogous to it, and other prescriptions substituted. “Mr Waynflete mustn’t be alarmed about himself; care for a year or two would make all the difference. He would grow stronger, and the nervous strain would lessen in proportion.”

Guy looked back at him, but said nothing; and as he took leave, Cuthbert remained for a minute or two.

“That young fellow is a good deal out of health,” said the doctor. “Hasn’t he a mother or any one to look after him?”

“Not a soul capable, except me,” said Staunton. “I’m going to do it as well as I can, and he will let me.”

“Well, remember this: whether he can avoid nervous shocks or no, he must not have them. And he can’t be too much afraid of the brandy. Get him out of whatever oppresses him. It’s the only plan. The heart is weak, and the brain—excitable.”

“Should you like a spell abroad?” said Staunton, as they sat at luncheon at his club.

“I could not go,” said Guy. “That would mean giving up having any concern with the business. And I haven’t enough money.”

“But if Mrs Waynflete knew that it was a matter of health—You must really let your friends know that you have to be careful.”

It was a new idea to Guy that the effects of his attacks were of importance in themselves, and naturally an unwelcome one. He looked rather obstinate, and went on eating his salad. After a minute or two, he said—

“I will do what I come to think is right. No one else can quite know.”

“No; but don’t you see, my dear boy, that whatever strengthens your constitution altogether will help you to—to—contend with your trouble—and make it less likely to attack you?”

“Yes,” said Guy, slowly. “What other people say does help one to think.”

“Well, there’s no hurry to decide,” said Cuthbert. “You still think you would like to go down to-night? Certainly, there isn’t much on at present here. What shall we do this afternoon?”

A friend of Staunton’s here turned up and pressed on their acceptance some tickets for a morning performance of Hamlet, in which he was interested.

“Should you like to go, Guy?” said Cuthbert; “there would be plenty of time to dine afterwards, and get our train.”

Guy thought that he would like it, and it was not till they were sitting in the stalls that it struck his friend that Hamlet was not calculated to divert his mind from the subject that engrossed it. Still, it must be familiar to him.

But Cuthbert failed to realise that, though Guy believed himself to have “read Shakespeare,” it is possible for a country-bred youth, brought up in an unliterary and non-play-going family, to bring an extremely fresh interest to bear on our great dramatist, and though Guy was not quite in the condition of the lady who, in the middle of the murder scene in Macbeth, observed tearfully to her friend, “Oh dear, I am afraid this cannot end well!” he was but dimly prepared for what he was going to see. He gave an odd little laugh as the ghost crossed the stage, but watched intently and quietly.

“What do you think of it?” said Cuthbert, in a pause. “He’s not so bad, is he?”

“He says some very remarkable things,” said Guy, seriously. “Things that seem true; but I never thought of them. Don’t you suppose the ghost was there, watching for him to act, often though he couldn’t see him?”

“Well, really,” said Cuthbert; “I do think you have made a new remark on Hamlet. I never heard that suggestion. We can go, you know, if you’re bored, any time.”

“No,” said Guy; “I like it.”

Guy had the faculty of calling up distinct mental pictures. It was the method by which he thought, and the moving scene stamped itself, as plays sometimes will, both on his eyes and on his memory. When they came out into the daylight he felt bewildered as if the world outside was the unreal one.

“The ghost didn’t do much good,” he said; while Cuthbert, wishing he had had more forethought, talked lightly and critically about the acting, concerning which Guy was not critical at all.

When they set off on their night journey, Guy grew quiet, and presently fell asleep. He looked tired, and the heavy eyelashes and the wistfulness, which, in sleep, his mouth seemed to share, made him seem younger than usual, and more in need of help. Suddenly he moved and started, while a look of shrinking terror came into his face. Cuthbert roused him, and he opened his eyes and caught his breath.

“Dreaming of the play?” said Cuthbert, lightly.

“No,” said Guy. He leant back in his corner, and seemed slowly to master himself, for presently he gave a little smile, and said, “I’m all right, thank you.”

Cuthbert thought that he could see exactly what the sort of thing was now, and how it came about. Presently Guy began to talk about Hamlet, asking many well-worn questions, and a few more unexpected ones. Cuthbert, who had been working up all the criticisms for a set of lectures, felt as he answered him rather like an orthodox, but personally inexperienced professor of religion in the presence of an earnest young inquirer.

After a little while, Guy said reflectively, “It is odd that he found it so hard to obey the ghost, rather than to resist him. I don’t much think Shakespeare ever felt one himself.”

This tone of calm consideration of the psychological truth of Hamlet nearly made Cuthbert laugh, even while he was thinking of how to manage the young visionary beside him. It was years since his easy life had been invaded by so much anxiety for any one, years since he had had so lively an interest.

Guy fished out the right volume of “Shakespeare” from among the books that played propriety in a glass bookcase in the dining-room at Ingleby, when he had finished his supper at two o’clock in the morning, and took it upstairs with him.

On the next afternoon, perhaps happily to change the current of his thoughts, they were engaged to Mrs Raby’s garden party at Kirkton Hall, a big house between Ingleby and Kirk Hinton, and the source of much of the gaiety of the neighbourhood. On arriving, after the long drive, they beheld Godfrey’s flaxen head towering above the other tennis players as he prepared to play a match with Miss Raby, who was the champion lady-player of the district, against her brother and Constancy Vyner, who turned to Guy with a cordial and friendly greeting. She looked fresh and bright, and quite at her ease in Godfrey’s presence. Indeed, she had told her sister that she came on purpose to show that she could “manage the situation.” She had written Godfrey, instead of Geoffrey of Monmouth, three times in her Modern History notes that morning, and she spent much time in telling herself that she could never return his feelings.

And now, with boy and girl defiance, and yet with instincts old as the earth on which they stood, the one thing for which each of the pair longed was to conquer the other.

The play in that notable set was discussed by tennis-lovers for all the rest of the season, and the players never heeded the darkening of the sky, and the increasing weight of the air. Cosy’s hand was as steady and her aim as direct as if no inner consciousness existed, she put into her skilled play every atom of force that she possessed. As for Godfrey, he was as mad as a Berserker, and he looked like one.

The game, owing to the equality of the players, was very long, and it by-and-by became evident to Florella that Miss Raby was getting tired, and was no longer playing at her best.

They were playing the last game of the set. “Thirty all” was called as, without a moment’s warning, down fell a torrent of thunder, rain, and hail, enough to stop the most ardent players. Yet half a dozen more strokes—Miss Raby stepped back, exclaimed, “Oh, what a pity; we must declare the match drawn,” and fled to the house, while Mr Raby snatched up and held over her a lovely and useless white lace parasol.

Constancy and Godfrey stood opposite each other for a moment in the drenching rain, both at once exclaiming, “Too bad!”

Then she laughed and scudded off with lifted skirt, while Godfrey felt a sense of baffled anger which even defeat would not have brought to him.

Then he had to walk rationally back to the house, and change his things, for the notes of a waltz suddenly sprang up. A big hall with a polished floor was cleared for dancing, fruit and ice were being handed round, and nobody cared very much for the thunderstorm.

Guy, looked out for the harebell blue gown, which he always associated with Florella. It did not occur to him that she had very few smart frocks at Moorhead. He asked her to dance, and it was not till they had spun two or three times round the dark polished floor that his heart began to throb and flutter, and that it struck him that this was probably the sort of “exertion” forbidden to him. He felt miserable, and wished, not for the first time, that he had never spoken of his troubles. It was more endurable, locked up as it were in the cupboard in the wall, than now when it mixed itself up with his ordinary life. But the slight discomfort could not signify, the chief thing was to conceal it. He would go on dancing, and presently get some champagne. Florella, however, stopped of her own accord in the deep recess of a window.

“I’m not a very good dancer,” she said, in her composed way. “You know I haven’t been out very much yet.”

“Don’t you care for it?” said Guy, rather breathlessly.

“I like it a little,” she said; “and it is lovely to watch, especially on a dark floor—crumb-cloths have no beauty.”

The light was streaming in under the storm-clouds through the narrow windows in dull yellowish rays, the flying figures passed in and out of the shadow, against a background of polished oak.

“I suppose,” said Guy, “that you like painting better than dancing?”

“Oh, well,” said Florella, in a tone that showed her to be Cosy’s sister; “to say that is either a truism or a very priggish remark. You might as well ask if one liked strawberry ice best or poetry. But I like looking on best of all—feeling pictures.”

“Do tell me what you mean?” said Guy, eagerly.

Florella was always impelled to talk, or, perhaps more truly, to think by Guy. She was drifting again into talk that belonged only to him, and that she would not have held with any one else.

“I don’t quite know what else to say,” she answered. “It is not exactly seeing things or noticing them. It is feeling the picture in them. This dance has a picture in it. Often I don’t feel so about things that are very beautiful.”

“Did you ever see Hamlet?” said Guy, apparently with an abrupt change of subject.

“Oh yes, more than once. Have you seen the new Hamlet?”

“I saw it yesterday. I wish you’d tell me the meaning—what you see inside that.”

“Oh,” said Florella, laughing. “That’s what many people have tried to see.”

“I have read it all through to-day,” said Guy, naÏvely. “What puzzles me is how, as the ghost was real, Hamlet had any doubt about him.”

“Why, you see he thought that it might be an evil spirit taking his father’s shape.”

“But if he had really felt it, he must have known whether it was good or evil. Seeing a ghost isn’t like seeing a person outside you. Didn’t you know that the other day when you spoke of the only thing that could have helped—Guy Waynflete?”

She flushed a deep crimson. There was something overwhelming to her in the conversation, and she could hardly speak. “That came into my mind,” she said. “I never thought of it before.”

“But you believe it?”

“Yes.”

The rain was ceasing, and the dusty, misty light grew clearer and more radiant. The waltz finished in a glow of sunshine. Somehow the ghost and his own condition went right out of Guy’s head. He took Florella to eat peaches, and began to talk to her in a more ordinary way, while the strain of their previous intercourse lifted itself from her spirit. They felt quite intimate and at home with each other, so much so that Guy explained why he did not ask her to waltz again, quite simply and without effort, admitting that he had been told to be careful. It seemed quite natural to tell her what he had been unwilling to own to himself.

He had hardly ever felt so happy, and when he was at ease, there was something sweet and bright in his face and manner which had a great charm.

Constancy, who paid him a gratifying amount of attention, told herself many times that he was much more agreeable than his brother. Certainly Godfrey looked neither sweet nor bright. He danced with Jeanie because there was no occasion to make conversation for her, and glowered at Constancy, and when Guy, certainly in rather an off-hand way, told him of his visit to London, and of the doctor’s opinion, he only looked savage, and said—

“You don’t seem as if there was much the matter with you to-day;” an answer which Cuthbert thought brutal, but which did not strike Guy as at all singular.

Godfrey had intended to say much to Guy about the advisability of coming to Waynflete, and taking his place as the elder brother, but he was unable to express it amiably, so his honourable scruples took the form of remarking—

“I can’t think why you’re such a fool as to annoy Aunt Waynflete by having Staunton with you. You ought to come over, and of course she doesn’t want to see him.”

“I am not going to make myself absurd,” said Guy, coldly. “What do I care who Staunton’s great-grandfather was? He has been very kind to me.”

“There’s a great deal in bad blood,” said Godfrey, obstinately. “It’s sure to come out. He’ll come across you somehow.”

“There’s not much to choose between our great-grandfathers,” said Guy. “I’d just as soon have his as ours.”

The agreeable little discussion was interrupted, and Guy only laughed as Godfrey was called away.

But it might have been a different person who said suddenly to Staunton, as they drove back to Ingleby in the moonlight—

“Cuthbert, the doctor thought I should get well, if I do take care, didn’t he?”

“Oh yes, certainly. But you mustn’t play tricks with yourself.”

“Well,” said Guy, seriously and cheerfully, “I mean to try; and, somehow, I think there’s a chance for me, altogether.”

Guy slept that night without dream or disturbance; but for Florella there was no sleep for a long time. A whole rush of thoughts filled her mind; of ghosts and demons, black spirits and white, bad and good angels. She did not feel “creepy,” or in any way personally concerned, but she mentally realised, or, as she called it, “saw” all sorts of eerie situations. Guy Waynflete—she did not try in her thoughts to separate the generations—seemed to have been pursued by an evil power. Was there no good angel to help him?

Florella saw—as she saw the thought in her pictures—the radiant image, all light and wings and glory, the instinctive presentment of a heavenly being which was her spiritual and artistic inheritance. Perhaps, in the light of that fair fancy, she fell asleep; but suddenly there was no outward vision any more, but a great awe and a passionate yearning within. A voice seemed to cry from the depths, “Oh, helping is so hard—so hard! There is no angelness left. It takes it all. My wings can’t be smooth and tidy!” Florella woke right up in the morning sunshine. The vision was over, but she did not forget it.

Part 2, Chapter IV.

Throwing Down the Gauntlet.

Shortly after this day at the Rabys, Mrs Joshua Palmer went up to Waynflete ostensibly because she thought that she could be of some use to Aunt Waynflete in getting comfortably settled in there, and in finally arranging her household if, as seemed likely, she remained there for the winter, but really moved by something in her daughter’s letters which excited her anxiety. It would not do at all to have “anything” between Godfrey and Jeanie, at their age. By-and-by, if anything really came of the fancy, things might be different.

Guy and his friend were therefore left alone at Ingleby, and two or three weeks passed without much outward event, but of much inward importance.

Guy, whether wisely or unwisely, plunged into the study of such experiences as his own, and their possible explanations. He had no difficulty in these days in finding material, and he brought to bear on the subject an amount of acute intelligence and reasoning power for which Staunton had hardly given him credit. He puzzled him a good deal by his ridicule of some recorded stories, and his keen interest in others. He mastered the point of the various theories, stating and criticising them with much force, and the discussions were certainly so far good for him that he lost some of his sense of unique and shameful experience. But Cuthbert saw that he tested everything by an incommunicable and inexplicable sense, and he never uttered any definite conviction as regarded himself. He had no “nervous attacks” as Cuthbert called them; but whether the terrible night at Waynflete had done him permanent harm, or whether the strain was more continuous than appeared, he was certainly far from strong, and suffered from any extra exertion, so that the need of care was evident enough.

“I believe I was a fool to set you upon all this reading,” said Cuthbert, one day. “You’ll wear yourself out with it when I have to leave you.”

“It would be very difficult to be alone,” said Guy, thoughtfully.

“It’s out of the question. You’re not fit for the mill or for the hard winter here. You ought to have a sea-voyage, or something of that sort. Or, at any rate, come and stay on the south coast somewhere where I could make my headquarters while I’m lecturing, and see you now and then.”

“There are a great many things I can’t quite tell you,” said Guy, after a pause, “and they don’t only concern myself. It’s all right about the reading, but I’ve got something to do to-day. It’s quite simple, only rather hard. And I know ‘he’ doesn’t want me to do it.”

Guy had said nothing so personal since his first confession, and, as he got up languidly, and prepared to return to the mill for his afternoon work, giving his friend an odd, half-smiling look, as he moved away, Cuthbert felt an uncomfortable thrill.

It startled him to feel that Guy’s conviction lay absolutely untouched by all his recent study. There was something inscrutable behind the pathetic eyes, and what was it? Was the boy “mad north-north west?” or would he at last compel belief in the incredible? Horatio, Cuthbert thought, had a great advantage in having actually seen the ghost that haunted Hamlet.

Then he remembered making some remark to Guy on the “objective” character of this famous apparition, and Guy had answered, “But they only saw it, as you see a house or a tree. I don’t suppose it made much difference to them.”

Guy betook himself to the mill, and called John Cooper into the room where the bottle of brandy was still locked up in the cupboard in the wall. He had often been as conscious of its presence there, as he could have been of that of the ghost; every morning he thought about it more and more persistently, and every evening when he went away he knew that the day’s victory had left him with less strength for the morrow’s conflict.

Now, when he went up to the cupboard, and turned the key in the lock, and, with his keen ears heard the old manager’s step crossing the court—it was to him as if another hand pushed the lock back—and another than himself suggested a different reason for the summons. But he stood still, leaning against the wall, till the old man came into the room.

Then he put up his hand, and let the door swing open.

“John Cooper,” he said, “take that out, and take it away with you. I’ll own you had right on your side. But you shouldn’t have cackled about it to Mrs Waynflete.”

“Well now,” said Cooper, in a rougher echo of the young man’s slow, musical voice, “I’ve thought of that myself. I’m glad you’ve come to a better mind about it, Mr Guy, for I’d not be willing to see the old missus disappointed in your future.”

“She don’t expect much,” said Guy. “Now then,” after Cooper had taken the brandy-bottle out of the cupboard, and set it beside a file of bills. “Now that you see I’m not going to send the business and myself to the dogs, shut the door, I’ve something to say.”

John Cooper obeyed, and Guy sat down by the table.

“Now then,” he repeated, “we are going to the dogs, and you know it. Let’s look it in the face.”

“Eh, Mr Guy, trade’s fluctuating. We’ll pull round without letting th’ owd lady know there’s aught wrong.”

“Look here,” said Guy, opening a paper, “d’ye think I’ve no brains in my head? Look at the number of orders for this year, and last year, and ten years back. Look at the receipts. What’s the use of spending money on setting all those out-of-date old looms in order? Where’s the sense of manufacturing the sort of goods people don’t want, instead of what they do? Is that the way these mills were run sixty years ago, when old Mr Thomas managed the business?”

“He got the new looms, sir.”

“Exactly so; and wouldn’t he have seen long ago that they were worn out. Look here, John, we’ll have to pull up, and put our shoulders to the wheel, or we’ll have Palmer Brothers down among the failures before many months are over.”

“Eh, Mr Guy, for the Lord’s sake don’t say so. Don’t mention such a thing. ’Tis those new mills over Rilston way—and the price of coals—and trade being bad ever since the Government— Eh, my lad, just think of your old auntie, seeing all her life work undone, and having to sell the property she’s so proud over.”

Here Guy started slightly, as the old man’s voice choked.

“But we’re not going to fail,” he said. “We’re going to fight it out and pull through; that is, if you back me up.”

John Cooper stared at him incredulously. Besides his natural surprise that this “laddie” was old enough to have a say in the matter, and besides his not unjustifiable suspicions of him, Guy’s delicate outlines and look of ill-health—in fact, his whole air—was so unlike that of the powerful old woman who had so long held the reins, that the identical form of the lines into which his lips set, was unperceived, and the sudden, keen glance that came through the silky black lashes, from the usually absent eyes, was startling.

“You know well enough, sir,” said Cooper shakily, “that there’s nought I wouldn’t do for the old lady and the business. She’s been a grand character all her days, and if there’s a curse on the Waynfletes, she set her teeth against it when she was but a slip of a lass, with rosy cheeks and eyes that could look the sun down.”

“Ay?” said Guy. “What d’ye mean by a curse on the Waynfletes?”

“Well, sir, of course it’s only a manner of speech; but there were plenty to say that Margaret Waynflete’d bring Palmers her own ill luck. Now, I say, Margaret never brought ill luck to any man; and Mr Thomas had the best of good fortune when he took her with her shawl over her head and without a penny. Bad luck’ll never overtake her now in her old age.”

“It will, unless we set our teeth against it pretty hard. I’m going to tight. Now, look here, it all depends on what money or credit can be produced now. In a few months it will be too late. I’m going to make my aunt attend to what I have to say; and, if I can, get her to trust me. For she’ll have to trust me with all she has, and make me the master, or down we shall go. And what you’ve got to do, is to tell her honestly, from the bottom of your soul, that you trust me, and know I’ve got her own grit in me. So now, I give you my solemn word of honour that I’ll never touch a drop of strong drink till ‘Palmer Brothers’ is itself again, and Waynflete safe; and, if I fail, may I become part of the curse myself. So here goes!”

He took up the brandy-bottle, and threw it out of the window, down into the shallow, dark-dyed stream below. They heard it crack against the stony bottom.

“Now then,” said Guy, “will you back me up?”

“Lord, Mr Guy! That was unnecessary behaviour,” said the bewildered Cooper; “and very strong language to use. But I’ll go along with you. You’ve brought me to look the Lord’s will in the face—which isn’t easy at seventy-eight—for there’s not a matter of four years between me and the missus. But I’ll serve you faithful, Mr Guy; and if the Almighty means us to fail—”

“But He don’t,” said Guy. “It’s quite another sort of person that means it. Now sit down, and we’ll talk business.”

As Guy marshalled his figures and his facts, asked penetrating questions, and prepared the statement to which Mrs Waynflete must at all costs be made to hearken, Cooper, who had a hard enough head of his own, silently gave in and yielded his whole allegiance. Only when the interview was over, he said, pleadingly—

“You’ll be gentle, Mr Guy? For it don’t come easy to old folks to turn their minds upside down. It is easy for a young lad like you to act.”

“Think so?” said Guy, with a queer, sad look. “Well, I’ll do what I can.”

He was much more tired than was good for him, as he came in to the study, in the rapidly increasing darkness of the autumn afternoon. Cuthbert was not there, and all his sense of courage and energy failed him; for, the more resolutely a nervous strain is encountered, the less power of resistance is left. He grew drowsy in the dusk, then roused up suddenly to the agony of panic-fear, to the intolerable sense of his enemy within him. He might cover eyes and ears, but it entered by no such avenues—anything to drown—to bury it. There was whisky in the cupboard. He staggered to his feet, and the next moment Cuthbert’s hand was on his shoulder.

“Steady, my boy, steady. What is it? Lie down again. I am here; you’ll be better in a minute.”

Guy clung to the hand of flesh and blood as if he had been drowning. He hid his face, not hearing one word that Cuthbert said. He was not merely suffering terror, but struggling, fighting to free himself, to escape, to separate himself from the influence that seemed to be upon him, resisting and opposing it with all his strength. “Oh, help—help!” he gasped.

“Yes—yes, my dear boy. Lie still. It will pass off directly.”

And very soon, in two or three minutes, as Cuthbert counted time, the agony seemed to cease, and Guy dropped back, deadly faint, but with closed eyes and smooth brow.

Cuthbert brought him, as soon as he let go his desperate hold, some of the remedy provided by the doctor, and tended him with a care and kindness altogether new to him.

“It’s much better with you here,” said Guy, presently, as if half-surprised.

“Of course it is. You were so tired; no wonder a bad dream upset you.”

Guy lifted his heavy eyes for a moment, and looked at him.

“A very bad dream,” he said drily. “It’s over now.”

“Tell me what it was?”

“He came, that’s all. No, I can’t tell you. You don’t understand; but you help.”

Cuthbert did not think him fit for an argument, and sat by him in silence. He felt that the sight of Guy’s agony had tried his own nerves somewhat. It was an odd turn of fate, he thought, that brought a quiet, everyday person like himself, to whom no great heights or depths, either of character or of fortune, were likely to come, who held steady, unexciting opinions, and expected no revelations about anything, to be guide, philosopher, and friend, to this strange being, for whom the balance swung with such frightful oscillations.

Guy was very quiet all the evening, submitting with a little surprise to his friend’s precautions, but evidently finding it comfortable to have done with concealment.

Only, the last thing of all, he looked at Cuthbert with his mocking smile on his lip—“What a ‘softy’ I should be,” he said, “if this was what you think it!”

Part 2, Chapter V.

The Mother’s Book.

Some few days before the stay at Moorhead came to an end, Kitty Staunton received a letter, which surprised her greatly, as it came from a person of whose existence she had never previously heard. It was signed “Catherine Maxwell,” and began, “My dear young cousin,” and stated that the writer had heard from her old friend Mrs Raby that the Miss Stauntons were staying at Moorhead, and that, as she believed them to be her cousin George Maxwell’s grandchildren, it would give her great pleasure to make their acquaintance; would they come over and spend the day with her at her little cottage at Ousel well, bringing with them any of their young friends who cared for the drive?

Kitty and Violet being curious and interested, and Florella being inclined for the expedition, the three set off one fine brisk morning; over the moors on the opposite side to Kirk Hinton, and came to a little cold, fresh village, high up on the side of a narrow valley. Here in a cold, fresh little house, with latched doors painted with thin white paint, and deeply recessed windows looking into a little garden full of hardy plants, now turning brown and yellow with the autumn frosts, they found an apple-cheeked old lady dressed in a shot-silk gown of so old a style that it was just about to come again into fashion. She spoke with so strong a northern accent that the London girls caught what she said with difficulty; but she made them most heartily welcome, gave them some very thin and long-legged fowls for dinner, followed up by curds and red-currant jelly. Then she showed them sundry curiosities, which they knew how to admire. There was a filigree basket, like to the one which Rosamond of the Purple Vase made for her cousin’s birthday, and for which she was so unmercifully snubbed by the common sense of her unfeeling parents. There were engravings in oval frames, bits of Leeds china, an old spinning-wheel, and finally, a quaintly shaped card-table, which on being opened, displayed, instead of green cloth, an exquisitely worked pattern of faded roses in the very finest tent-stitch.

“And that, cousin love,” she said, “was in Waynflete Hall when it belonged to my great-grandfather Maxwell.”

“Really!” said Kitty, with much interest. “Our brother Cuthbert is staying with Mr Guy Waynflete at Ingleby now. It was through him that we came to Moorhead.”

Miss Maxwell looked quite awestruck.

“Well, well,” she said, “young people’s ways are different. I should never have made myself known to Mrs Waynflete, nor should I think of calling at Waynflete, even if I visited at that distance. Not that I keep up old grudges, my love, but there’s a delicacy in such matters.”

“Cuthbert knew Mr Waynflete a long time before they knew about any former connection. I don’t think it troubles them, they are great friends.”

“Ah!” said Miss Maxwell. “Guy, too, I hope—”

“Cousin Catherine,” said Violet, boldly; “I am sure you can tell us delightful old stories of the two families. Do! Tell us about the ghost and the Guy Waynflete who never got back in time. Have we got a ghost as well as the Waynfletes?”

“Oh no, love,” said Miss Maxwell, “our family was never of that kind; and indeed, when there’s so much drinking and dissipation as there was among the Waynfletes, there’s no need of ghosts to bring ruin. And I’m sure your brother will always remember, that it was all in the way of business my great-grandfather obtained the place.”

“And how did he lose it again?” asked Violet.

“My dear, through business misfortunes,” said Miss Maxwell, with dignity. “And Ouseley, which is only a few miles up the valley, was sold in my father’s time. But I’ve been thinking, there are no Ouseley Maxwells left but me. And I have a few old letters which perhaps your brother ought to have.”

“I’m sure Cuthbert would be delighted to come and see them and you,” said Kitty.

“Oh no, Cousin Catherine,” interposed Violet; “do let us see them. We can tell Cuth, or give them to him; but old family letters, especially about Waynflete and the ghosts, would be quite too awfully jolly.”

Miss Maxwell looked at the blooming girl with her outspoken voice and her straight-looking eyes, her sailor hat, and her boyish jacket, as if she had never thought of any one like her before; she sighed and looked solemn, but pulled out the drawer of the card-table, and took therefrom, with great mystery, two or three yellow-looking letters, an old Prayer-book, and a very dirty pack of cards, and on one of these she pointed out a dark stain. “My loves,” she whispered; “this was stained on that fatal night with Squire Waynflete’s life blood.”

Violet became suddenly serious, and Florella could hardly help crying out in protest against touching these things which seemed to her full of a living trouble.

Miss Maxwell opened the Prayer-book which was bound in red morocco, most delicately tooled and gilt. On the title-page was written “Margaret Waynflete” and the dates of the births of her two sons. “Guy Waynflete, born June 19th, 1760,” and then “My Pretty Baby;” then “Godfrey Waynflete, 1764,” and then in the same pointed, careful hand—

“The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear Him.”

Florella could not speak a word, and when the book was handed to her to look at, she laid her hand on it with a soft, reverent touch.

Then Miss Maxwell with some ceremony opened the two papers, and begged Kitty to read them aloud.

The first was in the hand of this long dead Margaret Waynflete, and was evidently the brief commencement of a journal or diary.

February 10th, 1785.—My son Guy has gone to London.

February 12th.—We have killed another little Pig.

February 13th.—Attorney Maxwell is more Obliging than I like to See.

February 14th.—My Brother Godfrey did begin by Mistake the Funeral Service instead of the Marriage, for an honest couple. This Comes of Carousing. Alas!

March 25th.—My Chittyprat Hen has a Fine Brood. There be no letter from my son Guy, which angers his Father. My poor Boy. He is better even in Town than Here. Does God indeed permit the Spirit of His wicked Ancestor to Trouble Him? Alas! there is Wickedness Enough Alive.

April 15th.—The Pain at my Heart is great, I have nigh Swooned with it. N.B.—To distil lavender and drop Into it Cloves, for a Cordial. Death would be No evil, but for my two Sons, but this House would be no Home.

Here the brief record suddenly stopped, only lower down on the page were faintly and unsteadily written the words, “My dear son.”

“There was the ghost then, you see,” said Violet, in awestruck tones. “Oh, go on, Kitty. It is interesting.”

“There’s no more,” said Kitty. “The other paper is quite different.”

This was dated October 10th, 1785, and began—

“I, George Maxwell, Attorney-at-law, feel it incumbent upon me for the Establishment of my Character as an Honest Man, to state in writing what passed after the Shocking and Lamentable Suicide of Guy Waynflete, Esquire, of Waynflete Hall, which Property is legally mine by the Terms of the Bond between Us. Since there be not wanting envious Persons to say that! Took advantage of young Mr Waynflete’s Illness, which Prevented his Return at the Given Date. When he Arrived in the Early Morning, he was Undoubtedly in liquor, which was his Custom, therefore His Statement that the Spirit of his Ancestor, Guy Waynflete, Who Betrayed his Friend, and the Father of his Future wife, and so Disgraced his Family at the Time of the Lamentable Rebellion of the Duke of Monmouth, stood in his Path, and Prevented Him from Crossing the River Flete, hath no Credit with Reasonable Men. There be Some that say Highwaymen are Plentiful, but Lies, in the mouth of this Young Gentleman, are more Plentiful still. At the sight of His Father’s Corpse he fell into a swoon and Awoke Raving, in which Condition he Died This Morning. The Lad Godfrey is but a Loutish Youth, but I am Willing to Assist Parson Godfrey to put Him to some Honest Calling. I do not Hold with Country superstitions, and I shall Instruct my Wife and Daughters that the Gallopping of the Horse Round the House be nothing but the Wind in the Plantations.”

“Well!” said Violet, with calm emphasis, “whatever the Waynfletes were, our ancestor was a beast, and I hope the Stauntons were more respectable.”

Florella sat quite still. She knew the sound that was called the gallopping of a horse, and had once or twice been taken in by it, as a child at Waynflete, and she felt as sure as if she had herself experienced it, that whatever the evil was, inward or outward, which had defeated this unhappy Guy Waynflete a hundred years ago, it was alive and at work still. And she knew, too, that she had ranged herself on the other side, and entered into definite conflict with it.

The result of this visit was that a post-card from his sister summoned Cuthbert Staunton up to Moorhead on the day after Guy’s interview with John Cooper.

He was shown his old cousin’s treasures, which she had entrusted to Kitty for the purpose, as soon as he arrived, and studied them with a grave face, and with a far deeper interest than his sisters guessed.

“I think,” he said, “that these things ought to be given back to the Waynfletes. I shall go and see this old lady, and see what her view is.”

“Oh yes,” exclaimed Florella, suddenly, “Mr Staunton, I am sure they ought to have them.”

“In any case,” said Cuthbert, “I will take them and let Waynflete see them. And I say, I think you had better drop joking about the ghost. It was a great tragedy, and they might not like it.”

“Well, but it’s all nonsense, and dead and done for,” said Violet.

“It happened,” said Cuthbert.

He looked so serious, that Constancy’s keen eyes noticed him with inquiry, and Florella, oh, how much she wondered what he knew.

They all walked out together to see the departing purple of the autumn moor, now fading into russet, and as they went down the road, a boy trotted up on a pony, and put a telegram into Cuthbert’s hand.

“From Guy Waynflete, Ingleby Station. My aunt has sent for me. I must go, excuse me. Make yourself comfortable. Will telegraph when to expect me back, but not to-day.”

Cuthbert uttered a dismayed exclamation which frightened the girls, and obliged him to read the telegram aloud.

“Why, how very polite, and how very extravagant to telegraph up here! You would have heard when you got back. He must have paid five shillings for it!” said Kitty.

“He is rather punctilious,” answered Cuthbert. “But I hope nothing is wrong. He is not well, and I am sorry he has had to go off in this way. He meant to go to-morrow.”

The words expressed Cuthbert’s anxiety very inadequately; he fell silent, and Violet said—

“Well, he’ll have a more comfortable journey than the old Guy, and there won’t be quite so much depending on his getting there by a particular moment.”

“I told you to let all that subject drop, Vi,” said Cuthbert, sharply.

When the visitor was gone, Florella walked aside, and, in the late afternoon, she went away by herself over the withering heather to the rock where she had shown Guy the harebells.

There was no blue now, either in flowers or sky; the wind was driving a heavy, smoky mist before it, and the air was, as Dante calls it, “brown.”

Could it be possible that Guy had meant her to know what he was doing?

She knew, she saw, that the old story was not “dead and done for!” There came upon her an awful, formless dread that Guy would never reach Waynflete “safe.” She stood quite still, with her eyes wide open, and one hand holding by the jagged rock beside her. Her soul was alive within her, and wrestled with the angel—whether of light or of darkness, she did not know. She held Guy’s soul with hers as with her hand she might have held his, giving him all her strength, and her spirit stretched and strained as the muscles might have done in a struggle for dear life. There were at first no words within her. It was a shapeless foe; but gradually as she pitted all the force of her soul against it, there came into her the sense, not only of fear and peril, but of evil—images, thoughts, words, flashed into her innocent soul. Hitherto she had had no consciousness of prayer, only of struggle, but now she cried out to the Presence that was with him and her to reinforce her strength. And happily, blessedly, that Presence within her was not without form and void, she dropped on her knees, sobbing out over and over again the prayers of her earliest childhood. For the form that was within her was that of the Son of God.

When Florella came back to the outer world, and felt the wet mist on her face, and the wind blowing through her hair, and pulled at the damp heather with her hand, there was scarcely any daylight left. She could hardly recall at first what had passed within her, nothing remained clear, but a picture in her mind of the Flete beck, and of the woody hollow through which it ran, such a picture as she “saw” when she was going to make a sketch. She felt silly and confused, as if she did not quite know where she was, and as if she had worked herself up into an agony that had no cause or meaning.

Then she thought of Guy Waynflete, and she knew that the unconscious child-heart, with which she had entered that valley, had gone for ever, and that, whatever else she had given him in that mysterious hour, her love had gone out to him beyond recall. Interest, helpfulness, sympathy? These he had in a manner asked for, and in giving them, she had given how much more? She had flung herself out of herself to help him, and behold, she had come back to herself, with yearnings and longings and hopes and fears, that seemed full of selfish passion. The poor angel had fallen out of the sky!

The wet wind stung her hot cheeks with its cold blast. Suddenly she moved, and climbing up the rock, peered anxiously into the bunch of withered harebells, which had once stood up so brave and blue in the heavenly blue around them. There was—yes, there was one little living bud at the tip of a withering stem.

Florella did not pick it or take it to herself. She was going away to-morrow; she would never know if it came into flower. Perhaps she would never know how Guy had reached Waynflete.

She kissed the little bud, and then pulled her cloak straight and went home to supper, shutting up the new burden tight in her breast.

Constancy, meanwhile, was sitting comfortably by the fire, when there was a crack of wheels on the wet gravel, a deep voice outside, an opening door, and Godfrey Waynflete’s tall figure and flaxen head in the doorway.

“Why, this is a surprise!” exclaimed Cosy. “Then there is nothing amiss at Waynflete, though your brother was sent for.”

“Then Guy has been here? I knew it—”

“Not at all. But Mr Staunton has, and your brother telegraphed to him to say that Mrs Waynflete wanted him, and he had to go over.”

“Guy had to go to Waynflete? My aunt sent for him?”

“So it appeared. Did you come here to look for him—so late?”

Godfrey stood still, confused and unable to put two and two together so as to see what had taken place. He had posted some letters for his aunt yesterday, in his careless preoccupation, half an hour too late, and to-day he had had a telegram from Guy.

“Constancy!” he cried, “I see, think, feel, no one but you. I was determined that Guy should not spoil my one chance of a last word with you.”

“But what made you suppose your brother was here?” interrupted Constancy.

“He sent a telegram about a trap—at Kirk Hinton. I tore it up. I wasn’t going to let him interfere with my last word with you. He might get a trap for himself.”

“And you didn’t send it? Then you had better go after him as quick as you can; Mrs Waynflete wanted him, and I wouldn’t have her disappointed for the world. Is she ill, dear old lady? Why did you come away? And oh, if I was your brother, wouldn’t I give it you when you got home again!”

Cosy stood up by the mantelpiece. Her eyes glittered mischievously. She enjoyed seeing Godfrey out of countenance.

But Godfrey, after the first moment of surprise, felt nothing but that he was with her and alone. He came close up to her, and stood towering over her.

“Constancy, I’d do a good deal more than that to buy this five minutes. Won’t you give me a little hope? You’ll never have another fellow give himself, heart and soul and body, to you as I do. I love you.”

“And I love fifty other things and other people. I haven’t got a bit of feeling for you!” cried Cosy, desperately. “Why, I’m making a story out of you as you stand there before me. Is that caring anything about you?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I only know that I want you. Give me a chance. Without you I shall never come to good.”

“I don’t think you will,” said Constancy, suddenly and keenly. “I have said no, and there’s an end of it. You seem to have played a very mean sort of trick on your brother, and you can’t expect to get any good out of it. You certainly won’t from me.”

“Constancy—”

“If you were a little older and wiser, you would know what an impossible sort of way you have behaved in. But I suppose you must be excused, because you are a boy, and know no better.”

He turned white with anger.

“I don’t know if I love you, or hate you,” he said. “But you shall never say that to me again.”

He was gone in a moment, leaving Constancy stirred, upset, and frightened, so strong was the contest between his boyish and foolish behaviour, and the impression of strength and passion made upon her by himself. She was quite sure that she hated him.

Godfrey sprang into his dog-cart, and drove down the rough, stony hillside, at a break-neck pace. He was mad with anger at Constancy and at himself, while stings of conscience and vague alarm pierced the tumult of wrath, and added to its heat. He thought neither of ghost nor ancestor, as he drove madly along the stony lanes that led through the valley of the Flete; but he pressed on, as though driven by furies, fear of what he might find gradually forcing itself upon him, till, as he reached the bridge, and looked towards the house, he saw that the windows of the octagon room were full of light. In sudden alarm, he dashed on up the old avenue to the stable door.

“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 who drank? 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 his Self, 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 that he 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; but I 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 had come 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 am not too 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.”

“What did 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.

“Can he have 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, what did 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—I cannot look 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. You are the one least likely to follow the sins of our fathers, and you are master of Waynflete. So—so—that couldn’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 strong physique, 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.

“As she had 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 I die, 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.

“I will not 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.”

“What did 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, and she would 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.”

Godfrey paid but scant attention to poor old Cooper’s feelings when he reached the mill. He hardly took the trouble to glance round him, and never realised that he was, in part, owner of the great concern, and a person on whom its future depended. He gave Guy’s message, and asked indifferently if there was any in return. Cooper looked up the whole length of the young man’s tall figure, ending with the gloomy, indifferent face.

“Nay,” he said, “I’ve no message to send by you, Mr Godfrey.”

“All right, then,” said Godfrey, going, still thinking of nothing but his own purpose.

He found Guy on the sofa in the study, with some papers in his hands. Godfrey sat down opposite, and stared straight before him. Guy lay, looking down, very quiet but with a curious air of something held under and suppressed.

“I’m not up to long explanations,” he said; “but you ought to know at once that matters are in a bad way at the mill. It will take every penny we both possess, and all the energy and sense too, to pull through and turn the corner. Things have been going downhill for some time. Look here—”

Here he showed the statement which he had partly prepared to lay before his aunt, adding a few explanations and comments.

“Then—is the mill going to fail?” said Godfrey, confusedly.

“Not if I can help it,” answered Guy. “No! But we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

“But we couldn’t take out—realise—any part of the capital.”

“Rather not,” said Guy, with a shrug. “But what I want to say is this. You can’t do anything till you have taken your degree—except give your consent to certain measures. I’ll explain by-and-by. But, then, if you come back, and give your mind to it and work, as the old folks did, we’ll get on our legs again. I—of course Aunt Margaret thought you would be able to live at Waynflete.”

“Nothing would induce me to live at Waynflete, apart from the horrible injustice of it—I hate it. I should never endure it!”

“Shouldn’t you?” said Guy, and paused for a minute. “Then, I think you should use some of the investments to put it properly to rights, and let it again. Don’t sell it.”

“I don’t regard it as mine to sell,” said Godfrey; “and no—that would be undoing all she lived for.”

“Just so. And remember this. We owe it to her strong purpose that we’re not driving some one else’s plough, or working at some one else’s looms; that we are as we are, such as it is. That work can’t be undone. I don’t mean to give up. But, I can’t depend on my own health, or powers; I mayn’t live long, or be able to work constantly. But if you co-operate, we’ll pull through. Aunt Margaret trusted you, and you’re bound not to disappoint her. Her memory shall not be dishonoured.”

Guy was moved to speak more warmly from the kind of stupefaction with which Godfrey heard him. He thought that he had been too abrupt.

“You’re surprised,” he said more gently. “I’ve known how it was for a long time. It’s not at all a hopeless case.”

“I can’t take it in,” said Godfrey. How could he propose to “cut the whole concern,” and go away in the face of this news. Even if he went without a penny, how could he leave his sick brother with such a weight on his shoulders? Did dropping Waynflete out of his hands merely mean shirking a hard struggle? At any rate, he could not tell Guy his intention at that minute.

“You know,” said Guy, “after all the legacies are paid, and Waynflete is put to rights, I’m afraid you’ll have very little ready money. The work of restoring the family isn’t complete. You’ve got it to finish.”

“If—if the will had been burned, you wouldn’t have sold Waynflete, and put the money into the business?”

“No!” said Guy. He stopped to rest a minute, and then said, “If the business really failed, neither of us could honourably keep Waynflete. It would have to be sold to pay the creditors. And it is possible that, to save the business— But no, Godfrey—no—it won’t come to that. It shall not. Aunt Margaret shan’t be defeated.”

“I’ll think it over,” said Godfrey, after a moment. “Ought I to take my degree?”

“Of course, what’s the use of leaving a thing half-finished? But you’ll have to understand a little what has to be done at once, and give your consent to it. I’ll tell you about it another time. Take these papers, and read them.”

“Yes,” said Godfrey, escaping; “anything. I consent to whatever you wish. That is the least I can do!”

So then, there was no such easy way of escape as he had hoped. It was a burden, not an honour, that he had unduly won. For the momentary act there was no momentary atonement; but years of uncongenial labour. He hated the mills. Surely, if he dropped all claim on the profits, and gave his brother an entirely free hand, it would be enough? He would willingly sell Waynflete, and throw the price into the business, if Guy had not objected so vehemently. He had thought that his mind was settled, and behold! it was more unsettled than ever before. To give Waynflete to Guy, he could have worked tooth and nail; without a settled purpose, he was all at sea.

Guy felt a little baffled and disappointed. He had expected to find, as he put it, more grit in Godfrey.

“I suppose you will have to go away soon,” he said to Cuthbert afterwards.

“Yes—on the 18th, I fear—but I want you to come with me. There’s no one here to look after you even as clumsily as I can. I suppose Mrs Palmer stays; but her notions are limited to good beef-tea.”

“It’s not a bad notion. Cuthbert, don’t you want to know what happened to me?”

“Yes—when you can tell me.”

“I’m going to tell you now. Come here—quite close—lock the door first.”

Cuthbert did as he was told, and sat down quietly.

“Well,” he said, “how was it?”

“Well, that night when I was walking from Kirk Hinton, I got on very slowly, and it was a long—long time.”

“Yes—you got very tired.”

“Yes, but I thought hard. I almost made up my mind that the whole thing was a craze inherited from the other Guy, or at least shared with him. I thought nothing existed outside my own brain; that the old Guy had probably got drunk at the old public in the valley, and that I should too. That the cause of the whole horror was in me, because my brain was made wrong or crooked.”

He paused, and Cuthbert said no more than, “Well?”

“You’ve always wanted me to think that. You don’t know what it’s like to think so, when there is a great horror that your brain has made for you.”

Guy spoke very quietly. Cuthbert hardly ventured to answer him. “You would never understand what I meant by ‘feeling.’ But then I felt—nothing. I don’t think even Christ felt like that—quite, when He said God had forsaken Him. For I felt that there was no one even to forsake me.”

“But, my dear boy,” exclaimed Cuthbert, distressed, “I do not think so. I never meant to teach you to think so. That one hallucination—”

“If you knew what a spiritual presence in your soul is, good or evil—you would know what is involved in finding it a delusion. I was glad when I felt him come.”

“Did you see—it?”

“I saw the figure on the bridge, standing in my way. Well, it was a question of drowning myself or letting him drown me. I was almost mad—I—I think he laughed at me—I’m not sure. His eyes—”

Guy dropped his voice, and into his own eyes there came a wild, uncertain look, as of a sorely shaken brain. But he sat up and spoke emphatically.

“Suddenly I knew that I could try to get across. That’s the point, you see, Cuthbert—that’s the point! One can try, one can fight—devil or delusion—I don’t know which—one can resist, and he will flee. I think he will always flee—for there’s help. All spiritual presences are not evil; something helped me. I fainted, I suppose; but I got across the river—I set myself to get on, but the hill was so steep—and long—I was so deadly faint. It took an awful time, I had to stop so often; oh, I don’t wonder the other Guy was too late! But I got there in time. Aunt Margaret knew it, she quite understood.”

“It is all over now,” said Cuthbert, soothingly; “you won’t see the figure again.”

Guy slowly turned his eyes away from Cuthbert’s face, and looked straight in front of him.

“I see it now,” he said. “Listen—don’t stop me. I saw it ahead all the way. I’ve seen it ever since. But—but—it’s not him—now. Oh, you won’t understand. I know he’s not here now. This is a spectre—a delusion—but it’s very bad to bear. Stop; let me rest a bit.”

He put his hand over his eyes and lay still—whispering, “I’ve some more to say.”

“Yes, tell me everything—tell me just what it is,” said Cuthbert, gently.

“I can’t,” said Guy. “Shakespeare was right—and it’s very hard to be quite sure. The more one thinks, the harder it is. But whatever that is—which comes to me, I can fight it; I can resist. And I will. I mustn’t give in an inch. I’ve got to hold on with the business, and against the drink, and against the terror. That’s all I know; but I know that, though I’ve almost died of learning it.”

Guy turned faint after this eager speech, and was forced to lie back and be silent. Presently he spoke again in a faltering whisper—

“Doesn’t all this—”

“What, my boy? Yes, tell me.”

“It is so queer—you’ll dislike me for it,” said poor Guy, simply, and with tears in his eyes. “Anybody would.”

“Well, I don’t,” said Cuthbert, in his dry, gentle voice. “You know, I promised to see you through.”

“It eases me so to have you know it. But no one else—promise me—no one else.”

“Well—but your best help in the fight would be the doctor.”

“Oh yes—you may tell him anything you like, anything you can. The real thing is past man’s understanding. Only,” and he collected his strength, and looked up again steadfastly, “remember—devil or delusion—it is not irresistible, and I can resist.”

When Guy, soothed by his friend’s sympathy, had dropped into a much-needed sleep, Cuthbert still sat beside him puzzled, and, spite of himself, awed by the terrible story. He could not forget the records of that earlier struggle, which had come into his hands, and which Guy must see, as soon as he was fit to do so. He did not understand the experience enough to see why, as he put it, in the half-jesting thought with which deep feeling veils itself, Guy preferred the devil to a delusion. But he saw that mind and soul and body were all in danger, and he recognised that the belief in a resisting power must be fostered and guarded to the utmost.

“Only his faith can save him,” thought Cuthbert, with a mental start at the familiar ring of words, of which he had never made any personal application.

“It’s beyond me,” he thought, “and I’ll take off my hat and wait. He may be crazed, but he’s pretty much of a hero. And as for disliking him—well—not much fear of it. I’ll do all I know for him.”

Then Cuthbert thought the whole matter through, from beginning to end, and finally, with wise and uncommon mental patience, made up his mind not to rush in like a fool, where a man of any ordinary experience might well fear to tread. He would take every care of Guy; but, in that unknown region of his trial, he would let him judge for himself.

Part 2, Chapter XI.

Helping and Hindering.

After Godfrey’s wild visit to Moorhead, the first news that came to Constancy and Florella from Waynflete, was the announcement to their aunt from Mrs Joshua Palmer of the death in the family. It came after they had joined her at Harrowgate, and was quite short and formal, without any mention of the two young men.

Constancy was honestly shocked and grieved. The high-spirited, vigorous old lady had struck her fancy, and the wreath she sent was a genuine expression of feeling.

The next thing was a polite visit from old Mr Matthew, as it was the custom to call him, with his report of the funeral, and of the contents of the will, together with his comments thereon.

“Neither of the lads looks as if he’d make a hand of the business. The eldest is but a poor, weakly fellow, and of course the old lady must have had very good reasons for passing him over and preferring his brother. Eh! they’re a queer lot, are the Waynfletes, a bad stock—a bad stock—and that’s a thing there’s no getting over.”

Mrs John Palmer replied with polite hopes that their bringing up might have partly got over it; but though she was not very fond of her husband’s family, on family occasions she remembered Palmer prejudices, and felt for the moment that the two Waynfletes were interlopers.

Constancy heard of Godfrey’s inheritance with a great throb of surprise. How would he take it? How had it come about? She remembered how Guy had been sent for at the last, and she wondered, being keen enough to guess how much there was to wonder at. Just before she left Yorkshire she received a letter. It began abruptly—

“I am writing to you because, little as you may care to hear, I could never look in your face again, unless you knew the worst of me. Probably face to face I never shall see you, but let me at least have the right to think of you with less utter shame. My aunt intended, if my brother had obeyed her summons at once, to have talked over business matters with him, and to have destroyed the will in my favour, under which I have the misfortune to inherit. I first of all forgot, in my preoccupation, to post her letter to Guy, so that he could not come till the later train, and then, as you know, in my mad desire to see you once more, and alone, I failed to send to meet him at Kirk Hinton. If he had come in the morning, as but for me he would, probably my aunt’s accident would never have happened, and he could have satisfied her mind on the points between them. As it was, he only came just before the end, when, though she knew him, she could not speak to him. Moreover, the long walk and the hurry and shock, all through my act, so injured him, that I thought his death, as well as all the rest, would lie at my door. I see Staunton thinks it may be so even yet. Guy has been most generous to me, but that only increases the dreadful weight of remorse that lies on me. You will see how impossible it is that I should profit by the results of my own wicked jealousy. I have pledged myself never to do so. I have now no right to tell you that I love you, or to come forward for your favour any more. I have often been stung by your contempt; but you see it was quite justifiable. I have but one purpose now, to free myself from the responsibilities I have brought on myself. Guy insists on my taking my degree, and by the time that is done, I hope my course may be clear to me. I mean this letter for a farewell. Don’t think I hope that you will answer it. Even now, I can’t be sorry that I love you. In the very ends of the earth I shall remember you. I have often said that nothing should come between me and my longing for you, but my own violence has put me off from you. I have loved you a great deal better than my honour, and you were right to turn away. But, oh, Constancy, you are the one thing in the universe to me, and no one else will ever love you half so much. I feel as if I must some day wake from a dream, and find myself fit and free once more to move Heaven and earth in my cause, and to win you yet. Say what you will, I believe that I could. But now I can only sign myself in the fullest meaning of the word, unworthy as I am to use it,—

“Yours faithfully,—

“Godfrey Waynflete.”

Constancy read this letter through with burning cheeks, and feelings in her heart that showed themselves as impatient anger. She quite understood it, and Godfrey stood out before her mental vision, vivid and picturesque with his single aim, and his single heart. But her soul rebelled against the demand on her sympathy. Like all people of strong imagination, she was a moral coward; to enter into the depths of such passionate remorse—such devotion of purpose, was too serious, too absorbing a thing. To realise it, so as to say anything real about it, demanded too much, and she scorned such unreality as she recognised. She knew that an appeal had been made to her, not so much for her love, as for the support of her comprehension. She could not say soft, unmeaning words; she knew what was asked of her much too well. She could have comprehended him and helped him through, but, “I don’t believe in the need of it all!” she said to herself. “He had much better forget all about it, and turn away to something fresh. I don’t want to go down into the depths with him. I want my own soul to myself.”

So she got a little sheet of rough, square paper, and wrote upon it a little note in the individual characteristic hand which was like nobody else’s.

“Dear Mr Waynflete,—

“I was extremely sorry to hear of dear Mrs Waynflete’s death. I never knew any one like her, and she was very kind to me. I can’t think that she would have altered her intentions at the last moment, though I am sure you must be very sorry to have prevented your brother from coming to her sooner. I hope he will soon be quite well again. I never think there is much good in dwelling on things that are over and done with. Do you think anything ever matters quite as much as one thinks it does? I cannot pretend to be so constant to the past. And blaming one’s self only makes one stupid and spoils one’s future chances. All sorts of new things will be sure to happen, and whatever is, is likely to be just as right as anything else.

“Yours truly,—

“Constancy Vyner.”

“There! It would be rather horrid of me not to write,” she thought, as she directed the rough square envelope, “but I couldn’t enter into all those desperate heroics.” Yet all the while she was preaching new things, the image of such a desperate hero was forcing itself on her imagination, a story built itself up in her mind, in which the nobleness of such a single aim, the grandeur of such depth of feeling was shown in clear, strong outline. But in real life the type was too inconvenient.

Perhaps it was in defiance of an uneasy conscience, to prove to herself her own self-satisfaction, that she showed Florella the letter, and described her answer to it.

“Why don’t you speak, Flo?” she said impatiently. “You make my soul wriggle before you. What have I done?”

“Nothing, it seems,” answered Florella, in sombre tones.

“Well, what could I do? I should be very wrong to encourage him, and he would take it as encouragement if I went down with him into such a Slough of Despond!”

“Did you really want him to think that what he did was of no consequence? I wonder if you have succeeded.”

“I don’t mean to have anything to do with him,” said Constancy, resolutely.

But she knew in her secret soul that she had been a coward.

She went back to college, to all the engrossing interests of college life, and Florella returned with her aunt to London, for a winter to be spent partly in the ordinary duties and pleasures of a young lady at home, and partly in the steady and careful study of her art.

For what was she to Guy Waynflete but a blight acquaintance, a girl who had met him a few times, and with whom his intercourse had been so slight as hardly to raise a remark.

That was strange, when all the force her spirit could transmit went into her promised prayers for him, and, when to such entire ignorance of what had outwardly happened, she united that inner sense of living with him through all. The contrast made her shy of mentioning his name; but when some few days after her return to town, she went over one afternoon to the Stauntons, it was with the hope of hearing something about him. She was told that Miss Staunton would be in directly, if she liked to go upstairs and wait for her, and she went up into the pleasant shabby drawing-room. Some one was lying back in a low easy-chair by the fire, and Florella knew in a moment that it was Guy himself.

He sat up and looked at her with an eager, half-doubtful, half-delighted look, but though her heart gave a great throb, she came forward holding out her hand, and speaking in her soft, composed voice.

“Mr Waynflete! Please don’t get up. I hope you are better.”

“Oh yes! But Staunton has made me come up with him to see the doctor again. We came yesterday; I was tired to-day, so I have only just come downstairs. But I am a great deal better.”

After this Florella sat down on a low chair in front of the fire, and there was a silence. She could speak no more commonplaces.

“You know,” said Guy, after a minute, “that I was not beaten. I was not quite too late.”

“Yes, I know.”

“It was very hard.”

“Very.”

“You helped me.”

“I tried.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“No.”

“That doesn’t matter. You mustn’t know, you mustn’t see. But enough strength came.”

“Yes.”

“I shall hold on, and you will—help.”

“I will; I do.”

“Pray for my soul.”

“Yes.”

They had spoken in low, quiet tones—the words seemed to drop out; but now the spell broke, and Florella looked away and spoke with a falter.

“But it has been very bad for you; you are ill—and things went wrong.”

“Oh,” said Guy, “I shall be able, I hope, to set things pretty right. I can get along—”

As he spoke there was a step, and Cuthbert came in, followed by his sister.

“Ah, Guy—here you are,” he said. “Getting rested? I should think you wanted some tea.”

There was a little bustle, and the tea-things were brought with a lamp, and in the talk that followed, Florella learned more of how things were going at Ingleby. Godfrey had returned to Oxford; Mrs Joshua Palmer and Jeanie were to stay on at the Mill House for the present; and Guy meant to go back there as soon as he had seen the doctor, and Cuthbert was claimed by his work.

“He has much business on hand,” Staunton told her aside; “but I cannot think how he will get on in that dull house. I wish the doctor would insist on sending him abroad. But he wouldn’t go; his heart is set on his work.”

“Then I think the work is best for him,” said Florella.

“Yes, one can’t interfere. But it is a frightful risk. I believe he’ll kill himself over it.”

Cuthbert spoke with some irritation. He was very anxious, and his wise resolve was hard to keep. Florella’s heart sank. She might lend Guy her strength for the battle, but she could not save him from a single blow.

They asked her to dim with them quietly on the next night, and she gladly promised to come. She would hear a little more.

When she came, Guy seemed better. He sat by her at dinner, and joined in the cheerful trivial talk, with a look of ease and pleasure. They said nothing special to each other, there was hardly the ordinary consciousness of mutual attraction between them, yet she was happy, and he for once at rest.

After dinner there was music, and as Kitty Staunton played softly, and they listened to it together, Guy watched her gracious harmonious outlines, and felt glad that her dress, though long and ruffed, with a broad silk sash, quite unlike the linen frock she had worn at Moorhead, was still of a soft tender blue. It still suggested the harebells. He said nothing more about himself; indeed he forgot himself and thought of her.

He wished her good night with a smile, and a long, steady look, as if he was drinking in the comfort of her presence. It never occurred to him for a moment that the help she gave him was at the cost of suffering to herself. He did not understand that a star must burn before it can shine.

But when he went upstairs, and looked steadily round to face his enemy in a new place, he woke to the sense that, through all the evening he had never seen or dreaded him. The fear had been forgotten. With the first thought the strange thing was before him; but just then, he looked with indifferent curiosity. He had told his own story to the doctor, and had heard in return that he would risk his life by over-exertion, or by any mental shock or strain; and that rest, change, and amusement were by far the most likely cure for the nervous affection that troubled him, and for every other tendency that he had cause to dread.

“Still,” said Guy, “there is no chance for me, but going back and doing what I can.”

And to Cuthbert’s surprise, the doctor gave in and admitted that a strong interest in his work was good, and perhaps with due care, he had better try, for a time. Guy promised prudence, and gained his point.

He parted from his friend in the same determined fashion, though he did not try to hide that the parting was hard. Cuthbert wondered, as he had often wondered before, how any one could be at once so dependent and so self-reliant.

In the same breath he said, with wistful eyes, “You’ll write to me often, won’t you? Even a card; or if you just wire, it will be something;” and, “I can’t help it, you know, if it does kill me; I’ve got to do it.”

And the grounds of this conviction were quite incommunicable. As for Florella, she felt as if all power of “help” had deserted her, and that nothing was left but anxiety.

What had he known of her strange experience? When she had gone down into the depths with him, how had he known it? He had taken her knowledge for granted, and claimed her continual help. But what did she know, and what had she done? Florella’s spirit dealt with strange things, and she paid the penalty of trouble and disturbance of soul. Thoughts and questionings which her young spirit could hardly bear, came to her, and since she had so thrown herself out of herself to aid him, the delicate balance of her nature was risked as well as his.

The minute and exceeding care with which she practised her flower-painting was her refuge and safeguard through these difficult months.

And she was not left alone, with only herself and Guy to think of. She had a great many acquaintances, old school-fellows, and others; some of whom were struggling to find a place among the workers of the day, others who were in the swing of the London circle to which Mrs Palmer belonged.

Florella had always obtained confidences. Her reposeful manner, her good sense, and her kindliness brought them. But now she heard story after story of trouble and temptation, perplexity, or discontent. “I always feel as if you could see my soul!” one girl said to her. She listened, and said such words as came to her. She felt sometimes as if she was in the very whirl and rush of life’s battle, while outwardly nothing happened to her at all. She painted flowers, and went out to parties with her aunt.

Part 2, Chapter XII.

Harebells in Snow.

Fifty thousand pounds! For a penniless girl to find herself suddenly possessed of such a golden dower is a very wonderful experience. This was the fate which, towards the end of November, descended upon little Jeanie Palmer, and, as she truly said, “It was quite upsetting.” It came in a natural, though unexpected manner. An uncle died, possessed of a much larger fortune than had been supposed, and divided it by will, between Jeanie and another niece. That “something” might come to her from this quarter, her mother had always hoped; but nothing so splendid had ever been anticipated. It meant, in the first place, frocks of an altogether different quality to any Jeanie had previously possessed; and, in the second, an entire change of plans for herself and her mother.

It had been a great advantage last summer to come to Ingleby, and live in so comfortable and dignified a fashion; but now Jeanie would have her own house, and needed her mother to arrange it for her.

Besides, Godfrey would be coming back, and if he chose to seek out Jeanie again, he should see her in a new light. No one would ever feel her to be anybody at Ingleby; but, among the Palmers, she would be now a person of consequence, and her mother told Guy that she was sorry to break up their comfortable arrangements, but Jeanie had business to attend to, and must go to old Mr Matthew Palmer’s, near Rilston, he being her trustee.

“I am very sorry you must go, Cousin Susan,” said Guy, with perfect truth.

And yet it did not seem to the two ladies that their presence in the house could have made much difference to him. Every hour that his strength held out he spent on his work, and when he was driven to what he called resting, he often shut himself up in the study, and what he did there, they knew not. He had what Mrs Palmer called, “uncomfortable ways.” They felt him to be an uncomfortable person. His colourless face and preoccupied eyes—eyes that seemed always watchful, but that watched for something out of other people’s ken, like a wild creature’s, who scents or hears some far-off foe—were too odd to be pleasant.

In the mill, however, he proved himself born to rule. In spite of his youth and his bad health, he made himself felt in every corner of it, and won allegiance, if not affection. It was not his way to be irritable, but he was always grave; often stern and sarcastic, determined and dictatorial as ever old Margaret had been in the hey-day of her strength. When he stood leaning against the doorway of the long rooms, breathless with climbing the stairs, there was not a worker who did not wish to avoid his criticism; while the old managers gave in to his daring new departures, and never doubted that he could sail the ship.

His chief comfort was the entire and unexpected devotion of old John Cooper. He obeyed Guy loyally, but he also watched over him like a father. He had a careful old wife, who sent him in cups of tea, and provided him with luncheons, and this care he contrived should be extended to the young man too. He worked hard, so as to save him exertion, and never resented the quick, sharp orders, or the short, absent manner, and Guy was grateful—more grateful than he knew how to show. The old manager’s devotion helped him very much. There was Rawdie, also, whom he had begged of Godfrey, who slept on his bed and nestled at his side, and was a living presence, and a loving one too.

If the demands of the business upon him saved his wits, it strained them to the utmost. It was touch and go with Palmer Brothers, all through the winter, and if Guy had not been as clever as he was desperate, they must have gone under. It was just a case of holding on. If that had been all, he could hardly have borne it. But such anxiety was swept out of his mind by the other thoughts that thronged upon him. He could not sleep, so he read half the night—medicine and science, metaphysics and religion, magic and mysticism, demonology and witchcraft, theories of heredity and legends of possession, psychical researches and spiritual revelations. And then it struck him that the Bible might throw some light on the subject. He had learned “divinity,” and frequently heard and occasionally read the lessons, like other well-brought-up young men; but he had never read it with any personal object. He came to the conclusion that Saint Paul knew something about the matter. “Resisting unto death—striving against sin,” exactly expressed it. And sometimes the foe pressed hard and home—and then there were perilous moments for reason’s sway. Guy looked the haunting terror in the face. He took its likeness—“wrote it down,” as he had said—spoke to it—defied it—well, those were times better forgotten, and when Rawdie hung on to his trousers and pulled him back, he knew that he was making a mad rush at—nothing at all. But more and more the conviction strengthened, that whatever personal influences shaped the forms of his experience, behind it lay a “power outside himself that made for” evil, a power at one with all the evil of the world. Where, then, was the power that makes for good?

He sat alone one evening by the study fire, and asked this question in vain. Could he hold on any longer? He was so lonely, and the weather was so cold, it took away all his little strength. Godfrey was not coming home for Christmas. Nerves and brain would endure no longer the solitude—that was not solitude. He put his hand over his eyes.

“If Rawdie had not been there last night.” But Rawdie had been there—there always was something. As to the mill, there were flashes of certainty as to the right course, and a word or a kindly deed of old Cooper’s just gave strength to put them in practice. The sun struggled through the fog yesterday, and raised his spirits; the day before there was a letter from Cuthbert. Sometimes he dreamed of Florella, or the sense that she was “helping” pressed warm upon his soul. And now there was the connected thought of all these rescuing facts. But the source from which they came was veiled. He could not “feel” good as he “felt” evil. He could not trust himself to think of the gun in the gun-cupboard at the side of the bookcase, of the doctor’s medicine, of which too large a dose would be so easy—of the brandy in the cellar—which would drown all this agony or give strength to defy it. These images of escape pressed on him like living souls. Either would be so easy. Pray? Yes, but in such moments, before the prayer is offered, the victory must be won. The will of steel that had endured so much was breaking now. Guy got up and thought that he would look at that gun, which had been unused all the autumn. The drops were upstairs, and the brandy was in the cellar; but the gun was in the very room. He went over to the cupboard; but he was dizzy, and his hand shook a little; the key did not turn very easily. He fumbled with it. If he shot himself, what would happen to his double? Why—that would be gone out of the world with himself—and the world would go on without him. Would Florella ever learn to paint blue harebells in the sun? The dancing flowers shone and smiled before his mental vision. The key turned in his hand; but he turned it back again.

“I can bear it—another day,” he thought, as he leaned against the bookcase, with his hand still on the key.

Suddenly Rawdie burst into loud barking; the door bell pealed through the empty house. Guy started away from the cupboard, the room door opened, and a telegram was brought in.

“Don’t like your last note. Coming to you for Christmas; arrive 9:30. Staunton.”

When the door was shut again, Guy flung the key of the gun-cupboard into the fire, and fell down on his knees and gave thanks. Assuredly it was not himself that had saved him.

When Cuthbert came, after a long day of travel from the far west, he found supper ready, lights bright and fire warm, and Guy with a welcome that was beyond words, quiet and even cheerful, but so white and worn, that his friend rejoiced in the sudden impulse that had induced him to brave his sisters’ wrath, and give up Christmas at home to come to him.

“Why are you alone,” he said. “Where is Godfrey?”

“Godfrey went off to the Rabys. He has got off the track altogether somehow; his degree, you know, was a disappointment—and—well, he’ll have to come back soon and face matters out. Never mind! The mill hasn’t yet put up the shutters, and I’m still here, you see, spite of the devil and all his angels, to say nothing of the frost, which I think is going to kill me, and save farther trouble. No; but I’m rather bad, old fellow, and you’ve just come in time to take care of me, for I can’t take care of myself a day longer. I get such bad nights, and I want you to read me to sleep, I’m so tired.”

Guy gave himself up to the comfort of his friend’s presence, with a grateful sense of his need of it. His boyish pride was gone. He told Cuthbert very little; but his silence was the reticence of one who knew that surface words were of no avail, and that no one’s opinion made any difference to his own judgment. He had regained the mastery of his nerves; but his strength had been over-taxed, and he could but just manage the most necessary business, till, when on Christmas Day itself, snow fell heavily and the frost intensified, the cold tried him so much that nothing but lying still by the fire was possible to him.

A belated postman struggled through the snow, with a bundle of letters, of which a whole sheaf of loving home greetings fell to Cuthbert’s share; but to the lonely Guy, only a very smart Christmas card from Cousin Susan.

His home had never been a very tender one; but still, such as it was, he had lost it since last year. He felt hurt at his brother’s silence, and his heart failed him utterly. Why struggle to keep hold of so hard a life? He turned his face towards the wall.

“Here’s something for you,” said Cuthbert, as he opened his last letter. “Violet says, ‘Florella Vyner asked me to send you this little drawing for Mr Waynflete. She says he saw her failures in drawing harebells, last summer, and she hopes these will not look quite so bad, as it is winter now.’ She—hum—ha—well— Here’s the drawing,” said Cuthbert, breaking off as he read aloud.

Guy turned round with a start, and taking the envelope, opened it.

There, blue against the blue of heaven, was the little bunch of harebells, dim and cold doubtless, as compared to the originals in sun and light, but “living blue” still, fair enough to tell of springing thoughts and hopes and loves, in the dead cold of the winter snow.

A warm flush came over Guy’s face. How much the high consolations within him were reinforced by this little bit of human joy! Hope and courage came back, and life was worth living again. Cuthbert watched him this time with full comprehension.

“Ah,” he thought. “So—is that to be the cure?”

Violet had remarked that Florella was apparently too shy to send the card herself.

“But, it’s no use pretending, she always manages to hear what we know about him. Don’t you tell him I said so.”

Cuthbert said nothing, for nothing was needed. A new vision had opened itself before Guy’s spirit. Was the strange comprehension between himself and Florella to bloom out into so lovely a flower?

“I owe her all,” he thought. “She set me fighting. I knew she was a saint and an angel. And I love her.”

He took up his arms again with renewed courage. Before he won Florella, he must be free. She was not only a helping angel, she was his heart’s love, and he must be strong enough to take care of her.

He gazed long at the little picture, then folded it away, and getting up from the sofa, went over to the old piano, unused for many weeks, and began to play the old North-country Christmas hymn, familiar to his earliest childhood, “Christians awake.”

“I can’t sing now,” he said; but he hummed the words softly, and sang a line or two at intervals—

“Peace upon earth, and unto men good will.”

“We’ll have a little Christmas,” he said, with a smile.

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.”

“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.

Part 3, Chapter III.

Saint Michael.

Godfrey’s brief glimpse of Constancy had sent his “forgetfulness” to the winds. He had written a very proper letter to Jeanie’s trustee uncle, telling him, in confidence, the exact state of the Ingleby affairs, owning that he had made advances which just now were difficult to follow up, but by which he should consider himself bound in future. And he further made it quite plain that he considered himself only master of Waynflete Hall de facto, and not de jure. The answer was also a very carefully considered composition, and was more encouraging than it probably would have been, if Guy’s health had been considered less precarious. A year was skilfully indicated as the time that it might take Godfrey to “see his way.” Of course there was to be no engagement; still, at the end of a year, if not before, they would like to hear how Mr Godfrey was getting on.

“It’ll take a deal of bad management to upset Palmer Brothers,” said old Mr Matthew; “and like enough it’ll all come to Godfrey.”

By this arrangement Godfrey had to abide. He had tied a clog round his neck, and it was heavy to carry. He set himself with dogged resolution to master the details of business, and in the long evenings the two brothers looked over their aunt’s letters and papers, together with the relics handed over to the Stauntons by old Miss Maxwell, and which Cuthbert had given to Guy.

Godfrey, who had been at first reluctant, grew more and more interested in what he found, and Guy abstained entirely from comment on any of the facts brought to light, though these explained many things to him. He saw that his aunt had had good reason for her anger and alarm, when she had seen the brandy-bottle in his cupboard, for there were bitter letters of reproach and warning, the sort of letters that start up indeed like spectres from the other side of the grave, and in one, addressed to his father, there was an indication that his own enemy had been at work, for it consisted of a sharp and angry rebuke to the unsatisfactory nephew for “excusing his own faults by untruths and fancies like others before him.” Margaret’s own letter had evidently come back into her hands, but the corresponding one had been destroyed.

They found a few little relics of their mother and grandmother, who had belonged to the same family, small North-country gentry. They had been almost the last of their race, and there were no near cousins left. The lads had to make the most of a few bits of needlework, a stiff little note or two, and a photograph of their mother, of so much weaker a type that it had left but little impress on their strong Waynflete features. There were old likenesses, too, of father and grandfather, at which Guy looked earnestly, and then cast a stealthy glance across the room.

“The same old face,” he said, under his breath; while the hand that held the photograph shook a little.

They also pieced out the family history during its period of eclipse, realising with something of a shock, at least to Godfrey, how entirely it had sunk to the working-farmer level. They learned to know “the rock from which they were hewn,” and their sense of their old great-aunt’s energy and courage increased accordingly. Godfrey had escaped these more degrading temptations, and Guy, perhaps, was quitte pour la peur.

Godfrey went over to Waynflete, more willingly after these discoveries, to see what could be done for it, but came back late in the evening in very low spirits.

He hated the place, he said; the vicar had walked him about, and so had the bailiff. The church was tumbling down, and the farms were just worthless.

“I never saw such a God-forsaken hole,” he said. “I declare, as I came over that rickety old bridge, through that crooked old plantation, and those miserable weedy fields, pasture that wouldn’t feed a donkey, and beastly old hay so rotten that nobody had ever thought it worth leading, I—I wished Aunt Waynflete had let it alone. I never noticed it much in the summer. I didn’t notice anything much then, and I suppose it’s pretty; but it took all the heart out of me.”

“I dare say it did,” said Guy.

“I believe there’s a fate against it’s coming to good.”

“What if there is?” said Guy, sharply.

“Where should we be if Aunt Margaret had stopped to think about fate?”

Godfrey leant over the fire with his elbows on his knees.

“I don’t see that she did get the better of fate, after all. Waynflete’s a beastly hole, and there’s no money to keep it up, and it’s touch and go with the business, and you have half killed yourself.”

“But not quite,” said Guy. “Now, look here, it’s disgraceful to own a place in this condition, and it’s got to be pulled round, spite of fate or fiend either. Of course the work is not done, when the place is a sink of iniquity, and the property gone to destruction. We’ve got to finish it. Come, cheer up; get some supper. I’ve got a notion. We’ll get Clifton to come here, to dine and sleep, and talk matters over. Don’t you play devil’s advocate. He doesn’t want one.”

Godfrey looked up, half-scared, half-fascinated, into his brother’s face. There were times when he was more than half afraid of him.

Mr Clifton, a lively and energetic young man, full of plans and schemes, for which he found Waynflete hardly ripe, came over as invited, and soon suggested starting a subscription for the repairs of the church.

“The curious old Norman architecture makes it a county concern,” he said, “and Mrs Waynflete’s memory is so much respected that I am sure people would like to show it by helping us.”

“Yes,” said Guy, “I expect Mrs John Palmer, our connection, who wishes to take the house for the summer, would give us something.”

Mr Clifton looked much cheered by the notion of a tenant in the shape of a well-to-do lady.

“We might get a good deal done by Michaelmas,” he said. “I find the church is dedicated to Saint Michael.”

“Is that so?” said Guy, as if struck.

“Yes; I’ve been looking up the records—and—I believe it’s illegal; but I found some such curious matters in the old registers, that, as they concern your family, I ventured to bring them with me.”

He produced two worm-eaten old volumes, in which he had placed various marks.

It appeared that the last Waynflete parson had lived to extreme old age. His death in 1810 was set down, and had been followed by three long incumbencies of men of the illiterate and not over-reputable class, too common formerly in the north of England.

“The last was more decent,” said the vicar; “but he did nothing. The roots of evil are old and deep. Now, here’s a queer thing, noted comparatively recently by the vicar before last, in 1864.

“Buried John Outhwaite. Stated on his death-bed that, when a lad, he saw the ghost of one of the old Waynfletes, on Flete Bridge, on an autumn night. Probably a trick played on him by a comrade.”

“Is there any more?” said Guy, eagerly.

“The ghost of ‘t’ owd Guy’ is a tradition in the place,” said the vicar; “but there seems nothing recent at all authenticated.”

Next he showed them the entry of the death of the last squire, and of the luckless Guy, with Died by His own Hand, and Died in Delirium, written in crabbed, ill-spelt characters by the parson-brother, and then—

“It is not to be credited that my Unlucky Nephew saw His Ancestor’s Spirit. That is the same Idle Tale as was told by Peter Outhwaite when he came home from Rilston Market, and drowned his horse in the Flete. Albeit, there is Waynflete blood in the Outhwaites, for my Grandfather and his brother were Wild Youths. We be more Prudent now.”

“Ha!” said Guy, drawing a long breath. “I could not understand how these Outhwaites could see him. That soft lad is an Outhwaite, isn’t he? Is he the last of them?”

“Yes, except his old mother. She is a character, and very proud of her family. Her contempt for me is considerable. But poor Jem is an institution, and believes himself a pillar of the church. He is a good fellow in his way.”

“You spoke of enlarging the churchyard,” said Guy, suddenly, “if we—if my brother gave the ground. Couldn’t the wall come down, and the last squire’s grave be included? He could be forgiven now, couldn’t he?”

“Surely,” said the vicar. “If the ground were given, it could be done easily.”

“Of course,” said Godfrey, briefly. “What else ought we to do?”

Then the vicar unfolded his cherished scheme. The lease was just out of the Dragon, “that rowdy little public in Flete Dale, a curse to the place in every way, and the centre of mischief.” If Mr Waynflete would refuse to renew the lease—that was the place he should like for club, coffee-tavern, everything; several rooms—one large—the lads, unluckily, used to going there. “We should turn the devil’s flank on his own ground.”

As the young clergyman expounded the details of the newest and most up-to-date recipe for social, moral, and religious improvement, Guy moved the hand with which—it was a trick he had—he was shading his eyes, and looked him full in the face with such a gaze as brought him suddenly to a dead stop, a look of awe, inspiration, and resolute daring beyond description.

“That’s right. That shall be done!” he said. “That will turn the devil’s flank!”

Mr Clifton believed quite orthodoxly in the devil; but he had used his name at the moment more or less metaphorically. He felt as he looked at Guy, as he had never felt before, that “improving” his parish meant literally dragging it away from the power of evil.

“The place won’t answer in that depressing hole,” said Godfrey. “It gives one the shivers to think of it.”

“It’ll answer, if we’re not afraid,” said Guy.

It was not surprising, on any grounds, that he had a bad fit of palpitation and faintness that night, after the long discussion was over.

“I must lie still,” he said in the morning; “but bring Clifton here before he goes. I want to speak to him.”

“I am afraid I over-tired you last night,” said the vicar, penitently, when he obeyed this summons.

Guy was lying back on his pillows, with the winter morning sun shining through his unshaded window, full on his hair and face.

“Thanks—it couldn’t possibly be helped,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. You’re quite right about the Dragon. Don’t give the notion up. You know we have neither of us much money, but we’ll help. And you’re right about the subscription. Every one that lends a hand brings more force to help.”

“We must give a long pull and a strong pull and a pull all together,” said the vicar, cheerily.

“Yes,” said Guy, with a vivid smile. “Now I understand that. And when we have won, you could paint in Michael above the Dragon, beating him down under his feet.”

“Surely, most appropriate in Saint Michael’s parish. Oh, I felt very much out of heart before; but you have greatly encouraged me, and I hope and pray that we may make some way now.”

“Pray?” said Guy. “Yes. That’s a very hard thing to do; but it makes a great difference.”

And the young vicar, as he looked into Guy’s eyes, felt for the first time that he understood what was meant by “wrestling in prayer.” He was so much impressed that he could make no sort of obvious and natural answer. He was silent for a moment, and then said—

“You will tell me every idea that occurs to you? I shall be too grateful. And—when you are strong enough—if the Hall is occupied, or uninhabitable, do come to the Vicarage. I’ve made that weather-tight, and—you could see everything for yourself.”

“Thanks,” said Guy; “I think I could do that—I will, sometime. And Godfrey will be coming over about the repairs.”

To Godfrey it was a distinct relief when Guy called him after the visitor was gone, and dictated the letter to be written to the agent of the Australian sheep-farmers, who supplied the mill with raw wool, and who had not supplied it in the past, according to the samples offered. Palmer Brothers did not intend to be cheated in the future.

Then Guy was left alone in the wintry sunshine to think over the past night.

“The Enemy”—as he phrased it—had indeed come to him as before; but he had not been afraid, for, in the same inward region of unspeakable experience, he had felt for the first time, the presence of a Friend.

Part 3, Chapter IV.

The Family Face.

Mrs John Palmer replied by a handsome subscription to the letter informing her of the condition of Waynflete church. “Miss S.J. Palmer” sent fifty pounds as a tribute to her dear aunt’s memory, from the Riviera, where she had gone with her mother; and others of the family and neighbours came forward liberally enough to put Mr Clifton in very high spirits. Miss Florella Vyner offered a modest five pounds, and, finally, Constancy sent fifteen, being the entire fruit of the story that had come into being at Moorhead. She sent it to Guy, and stated that it was a token of affection for dear Mrs Waynflete; but it was, perhaps, something of a sin-offering as well.

Godfrey beheld her contribution with strange thrills. He was pleased, and yet life was harder after he had read, and secreted her little note, on the loss of which Guy did not comment.

Life could not be very easy. Apart from his own troubles, there was a strain in living with any one in such a state of nervous tension as Guy, carefully as the elder brother controlled himself. His very reticence began to have an effect on Godfrey, and though he himself felt more and more the blessing of comparative inward peace, he could not but suffer much from the outward trial, and once his carefully maintained caution gave way, and he made a great mistake.

“Look here,” he said one morning in the early spring, as he studied his letters, “I asked Clifton to get this done for me.”

“What?” said Godfrey, looking. “A photo graph? Oh, that picture. What did you want it for?”

“You don’t mind? I wanted really to see it.”

“It’s not much like you now,” said Godfrey. Guy got up, and, unlocking a drawer, he laid a row of small objects on the table, setting the photograph of the Waynflete picture beside them.

These were the old likenesses of their father and grandfather, a handsome, well-set-up photograph of himself taken at Oxford, and another more recent one.

“Oh, I say,” said Godfrey, “why did you sit when you were looking so ill? Yes, there’s a good deal of likeness; but, oh, chuck this one with the eyes into the fire—I don’t like it. Eh! What’s this? Have you been drawing yourself? You have made yourself look quite fiendish.”

Guy had laid a rough pen-and-ink outline beside the line of photographs. They certainly formed a curious study of a persistent type, but the last photograph of the living Guy seemed to blot the others out, the mournful eyes were so full of terrible suggestion, the mocking lips were set into lines of so much stronger purpose. And the drawing repeated the photograph with a difference.

“What?” said Godfrey, as Guy’s silence suddenly suggested an idea to him. “What? Do you mean that—the ghost—your bogie—looks like that?”

“Yes,” said Guy, “I think so.”

Godfrey swept the pictures together with an angry motion. He had believed in the ghost, but somehow this definite presentment struck a sudden scepticism into him.

“Oh, come,” he said, “nonsense! You never ought to look at them. It’s very bad for you. You may get to fancy anything.”

Guy gave him an odd look of comprehension.

“Never mind,” he said quietly, “I ought not to have brought them out. They won’t hurt me. Here’s quite another matter. You’ve managed those Devonshire dyers very well. They’re coming round to our terms. See.”

In the gentle steady look with which Guy spoke these encouraging words, the likeness to these wild versions of the family face was lost; but Godfrey had received a shock. In the instinctive recoil of his being from the incredible horror, he doubted Guy’s sanity, even his truth; he shrank from him, even while he loyally obeyed him, and did all he knew for his comfort. And yet as the slow days wore on, in close contact with his brother, an awful sense of comprehension began to steal into him. He too was a son of the Waynfletes; he too had been tempted, was tempted hourly to give up the hateful drudgery, to shake off the fate to which he was bound. He began to understand Guy. And though Guy controlled not only his face and words, but his very thoughts, before Godfrey, the mischief was done. Guy’s very presence filled him with weird suggestions. It struck him that that other figure must be there too, and the longing for escape became almost irresistible, a longing much intensified when he received the following letter from Mrs Joshua Palmer, one Saturday, by the second post—

“Jeanie enjoys the new places and the amusements of hotel life, and I may say, without a mother’s vanity, that she is greatly admired; but I think she loves her old friends, and has enjoyed nothing so much as her Christmas at Raby. We are most glad to hear that the Ingleby business is prosperous, and that Guy is stronger, and we look forward to seeing you on our return from abroad, my dear Godfrey, with great pleasure. Jeanie hears from a Rilston friend, who has a cousin at Constancy Vyner’s college, that there is a very learned professor there who admires her very much, and that when she has taken her degree they will be married, a very suitable arrangement; but I am an old-fashioned, ignorant person, and I don’t think that these new studies teach girls how to make home happy, and I am glad dear Jeanie has simpler tastes.”

Godfrey flung the letter down, and tore open another. It was from a college friend in Queensland, and gave a lively picture of the life of a sheep-farmer.

“Come out and join me,” it said; “let your brother manage the business. He can buy our wool, and we’ll make a good thing of it.”

If he could but go, and escape from his misery! He looked up and started violently as he saw Guy standing beside him, watching him with his intent, searching look.

“I’ve been having a turn with Rawdie,” he said, and sat down by the fire, still looking at Godfrey, under his hand.

There was a short silence, and then suddenly, without warning, Godfrey burst out.

“I see no good in all this work, nor in anything else. I believe there is a curse upon us. We’d better cut each other’s throats.”

“That’s what I want to talk about,” said Guy; “not about cutting throats, but because I know you’re in a bad way. I’ve been thinking a great deal about you. What’s the matter?”

Then Godfrey showed his two letters, and in confused words, helped out by Guy’s questions, he told that he loved Constancy to distraction, that she had failed him in his hour of need, that Jeanie was his inevitable fate, and, finally, that he wanted to run away. He hated Waynflete—no, not only because of the way he had got it, but because—well, there was something—Waynflete took the heart out of him. Guy leant forward and looked hard into his brother’s face.

“We have got to go down to the bottom of it together,” he said. “It won’t do to be afraid of one’s thoughts. There are no other ghosts so fatal. And as for cutting one’s throat, no doubt it’s simple, but how about when it’s done?”

“Guy,” said Godfrey, hurriedly, “do you—do you really see that Thing—you showed me?”

“Yes,” said Guy, gently; “but that has nothing at all to do with you. That is only a nervous affection, wholly physical. It has no existence whatever for you.”

“But you said you had seen the ghost?”

“I believe,” said Guy, choosing his words carefully, “that I have gone through experiences, not new in our family, and to which our constitutions make us liable. It’s an unusual kind of thing, but there are other cases on record. As to what agency causes these delusions and visions—I use both words advisedly—I am not prepared to say. As to the Waynflete traditions, it is my belief that there is some connection between these experiences and the place where they occur, and the people to whom they happen, somehow, where nerves and Spirit and the hidden forces of Nature meet. I know no more, and I don’t think they’ll fall to your share.”

The definite words, the composed manner steadied Godfrey’s spirit. He had felt the brush of the unseen wings, and he was able to recognise what Guy meant.

“There is something more,” said Guy. “It is under these forms of experience that I have had to resist temptation. Temptation is common to man, but some of us are made so as to know when it tears soul and spirit—yes, and body, asunder. But it’s just as hard, no doubt, for other people to keep their heads above water as for me. But,” he paused and hesitated; then went on in still quieter tones, “whatever men, in all ages and all places, have meant by spiritual experience, what they meant when they said that they were ‘tempted of the devil,’ that I have known, and I know. And I know, also, what they meant when they said that the Lord had delivered them out of his hands. And I thank God for the knowledge, even if it came by fire! Remember that! But as for you, the devil, or what he stands for, would give you just as much trouble in Queensland as here. You’re not married to Jeanie yet, nor even engaged to her. And you promised not to leave me alone with the ghosts.”

Guy’s manner was so reticent and calm that Godfrey hardly grasped at once all the force of what he had said. He leant his head on his hands, and was silent for some minutes. Then he said, not very steadily—

“If I left you now, I should be a deserter. But I nearly did. And you know what I did do—as to you—and what a fool I was at Christmas. Some day I shall knock under.”

“No, you won’t,” said Guy; “you’ll stick to your colours. You’ll stand by me.”

Godfrey nodded; he still sat with hidden face. Guy laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Poor old lad!” he said. “I’d rather fight seven devils, more wicked than the first, than have my angel fail me! But, Godfrey, stick to this. Never mind what the fate or the curse may be. We have to fight it, and, God helping us, we can. And I’ve no reason to suppose that the fight would be over, even if we had cut our throats, and been—gathered to our fathers. If it were, it would be a dirty trick to turn tail and leave the fiends—or the bailiffs—in possession at Waynflete.”

Poor Godfrey looked hardly reassured by this suggestive speech; but suddenly Guy’s face softened, and he said, pleadingly—

“Don’t make me into a bugbear, old boy; it’s rather hard, and there’s really no occasion.”

“I should be a confounded fool if I did,” said Godfrey, with some embarrassment. “No, I’ll not turn tail. I’ll stick to the shop.”

He kept his promise manfully; but it was a relief to both brothers when Easter week brought Cuthbert Staunton for a flying visit. He was going abroad, he said, to look up materials for a set of lectures on the sources of English culture. He had set his heart on getting Guy to come with him.

“We’ll take it easy,” he said; “and drop all the bogies in the Channel as we go.”

“Paradise wouldn’t be in it,” said Guy, with a long breath. “But no; first I must go to Waynflete.”

“I don’t approve of that move.”

“I’m much better, and I mean to go.”

“That’s always conclusive.”

“Well, I know best. But by-and-by—Poor Godfrey frames very well to the business. Perhaps he would be better without me. I say, is Constancy Vyner really going to marry a learned professor?”

“Not that I know of. She is going abroad with my sisters, as soon as the term is over. She is not coming to Waynflete, and that, perhaps, is best.”

“Well, I don’t know. I think the heavens will have to fall some time.”

“Florella Vyner has a sweet little drawing, which she means for the Academy. ‘Above the Stars’—a ditch full of wide-open celandines.”

“Does she come to Waynflete?”

“I believe so—to study primroses,” said Cuthbert, sedately.

Guy pulled Rawdie’s ears, and said nothing; but Cuthbert ceased to oppose his intention of accepting Mr Clifton’s invitation, and looking after the improvements for himself.

Part 3, Chapter V.

T’ Owd Gen’leman.

Guy went to Waynflete. The sweet, clear atmosphere, fresh from the moors, delighted him, and he felt daily stronger and better, while his inborn love for the home of his fathers withstood all painful associations. On his little rough pony, with Rawdie beside him he appeared suddenly in the fields and lanes, like “t’ owd Guy hissel,” as Jem Outhwaite’s old mother declared.

“Eh! but we’ve got a master!” one old man said, quite unimpressed by Guy’s careful quoting of his brother’s name, as he gave orders about repairs and improvements, and made himself acquainted with every dilapidation. He bearded old Cowperthwaite, the publican of the Dragon, in his den, resisted the telling plea that Cowperthwaites had kept the Dragon before Waynfletes lost the Hall, and refused him the renewal of his lease at Michaelmas on the ground of disorder and disreputableness, and of various poaching scandals, which he hunted up as diligently as if old Margaret had bought back Waynflete for the single purpose of preserving its game. It was a proceeding calculated to bring a hornet’s nest about Godfrey’s ears; but Guy was as determined as if no other spot in the valley would have served for a village club. His aims were so visionary, and his methods of carrying them out so practical, that the vicar felt as if two men were working beside him. Guy knew nothing of the parochial side of a country squire’s life; but he hunted down the old Dragon, as if turning a public-house into a coffee-tavern was his life work.

One glorious morning of spring and promise, as he was riding in and out of the lanes in the valley, his pony cast a shoe. He took him into the forge, which was close to the Dragon, to have him re-shod, and, while he waited, strolled on by the side of the dancing, laughing beck towards the old footbridge. In this blue and sunny air, when the once weird and desolate wood was beginning to swell with living green, when the birds were singing, and the earth was full of life, he felt able to look again on the scene of his trial.

He saw the rocky field down which he had stumbled in weary haste, now fresh and green, with a dozen or so of little black-faced lambs skipping about on it. The sunlight shot through and through the opposite wood, now bright and delicate with primroses and anemones; the sky was of cold, but radiant blue. Rawdie pricked his long black ears, and watched the lambs with deep interest, but with admirable self-restraint.

Guy sat down on a bit of broken wall at the foot of the field, and looked across the river. The haunted hollow was lovely with all the rough charm of the north; for Guy it had the charm of home.

“New heavens and a new earth!” he thought.

“Good day t’ ye, Mr Waynflete!”

He turned with a start, and saw a tall old woman, with a red shawl over her head and a handsome, weather-beaten face.

“Good day,” he said. “Mrs Outhwaite, isn’t it?”

“Ay, sir. Margaret Outhwaite’s my name. My old man and I were cousins—I’m as good as the last of ’em. Ye’ll ha’ heard, sir, maybe, that the Outhwaites ha’ the reet to see t’ owd Guy—him as walks—as John Outhwaite, my husband, could have told ye.”

“Ay!” said Guy. “So I’ve heard. Won’t you sit down, and tell me about it?”

“Nay, I’ll stand. But sit ye down, sir; ye look but poorly. Ay? Ye’ll maybe have had a warstle wi’ him yersell. Eh—ay? John saw him, here on t’ brig. He held to it—at his death, and said ’twas a warning. Eh dear—he never took it!”

“Did you ever see him yourself?” asked Guy.

“Nay—I never saw un; the Lord’s left un no room. Eh, sir, have ye got religion?”

“Not quite,” said Guy.

“Eh, sir, ye mun get it; ye’re the sort to need it.”

“I do,” said Guy; “that’s so.”

“Sithee,” said the old woman, resting the basket she carried on the wall, and dropping the tone of honest pride with which she had spoken of her family’s share in the Waynflete ghost, for a coaxing whisper, “sithee, Mr Waynflete. There’s my lad; he’s a bit soft is Jemmy; but he can do a job of work; he can use a besom wi’ the best, and he’ve fettled up t’ kirk for t’ oud sexton, and pu’d t’ bell and fetched t’ watter for t’ christenings, these twenty year. But this ’ere vicar he’s a stranger. Now, Mr Waynflete, canna’ ye speak a word for my lad, t’ last Outhwaite as Waynflete’ll ever see. T’ vicar, he knows nought o’ Waynflete, and ’twas from the Glory Hallelujah men I got salvation. But ’tis all the same, sithee, t’ kirk’s never opened without my Jem, and I doubt na the Lord speaks to his saul. Eh, here a be; I’ve been a looking for him. He’s feared to cross t’ brig by ’issell. There’s no telling, there’s no telling, sir, what t’ ow’d Guy may have done to him.”

Jem, still with the weird boyishness that often clings to those of imperfect intellect, came shambling down the path from the Dragon.

“T’ pony’s shod,” he said, in a high, cracked voice, as he came in sight.

“Thanks,” said Guy, moving. “Good day to you, Mrs Outhwaite; I’ll see the vicar.”

The sunny valley had lost its smile, and for the moment Guy yielded to his sudden sense of shrinking distaste, and hurried on without a backward glance. This burlesque of his most inward and individual experience gave him a new sensation. He took his pony, and rode on up the hill to the church, where the vicar was watching the placing of the new grey slabs of stone, in place of the broken ones on the high-pitched roof. Guy tied up his pony, and sitting down on a flat tombstone, looked on also.

“Peter cast a shoe,” he said; “and Mrs Outhwaite has been pleading for Jem’s place as second grave-digger.”

“Oh, of course, one must let him literally ‘fool around’ as long as he can. His mother is pretty much of a Ranter; but so is every one here with any religion. How else would they have got it? She watches over poor Jemmy. Now and then he gets drunk at the Dragon. It’ll be a good day for him when we close it. He’s a nervous, timid creature; I’ve seen him shiver and shake sometimes in a way that was pitiful.”

“The mother says t’ owd Guy scared him.”

“Oh, well,” said the vicar, “I believe that tradition would have died out long ago but for old Peggy Outhwaite. She takes a pride in it. ‘T’ owd Guy’ is used as a sort of bogie to frighten the children; I’ve heard a mother say, ‘T’ owd Guy’ll get ye.’ It’s a sort of proverb.”

Guy made no answer; but he reflected that Mr Clifton was a South-country stranger, to whom the natives did not confide their inmost beliefs, and, being himself a North-country man, and no stranger, he enjoyed this opinion in silence. He started a little when he turned and saw the subject of the conversation standing close by him, touching his cap, and smiling at him, a slow, foolish smile.

“So you’re come to look after the church?” said Guy.

“When t’ church is fettled oop, me and sexton’ll have new clothes,” he said, in a cracked but confidential whisper.

“That’ll be fine,” said Guy, good-naturedly.

Jem grinned, nodded, and shambled off again; but, from that day forward, he attached himself to Guy with curious persistency, watching for his coming, starting up unexpectedly to hold the pony, made happy by a word or smile. He followed Guy as closely, and more humbly than Rawdie.

So it came to pass that, on the morning after her arrival with her aunt at the Hall, Florella, having found her way into part of the wood that covered Flete Edge, heard a sharp bark, and beheld Rawdie come scurrying over last year’s leaves and this year’s primroses, till a shrill whistle stopped him short.

Florella stood still also, as, coming across a clearing in the underwood, she saw Guy riding his little rough pony, and behind him, like a shadow, the grotesque figure of Jem Outhwaite. They were a strange and unusual pair, with the grotesque little dog for a herald.

Guy sprang off the pony, and came forward with an eager greeting.

“We knew you were coming yesterday,” he said. “Clifton and I meant to call this afternoon. I am so glad I am still here. Oh yes,” as she murmured an inquiry and a greeting, “I am quite strong now.”

After a few more sentences, he paused and said, with a smile, and a little shyness, “I want to show you something.”

He led her a few steps aside, along a little foot-track towards a bank, covered all over with the long trails and open flowers of the smaller periwinkle.

“There!” he said. “I have been watching these every day, to see if they would be ready for you. The spring blue-bells won’t be here for a long time; but these—they are blue—they are like stars—won’t they make a picture?”

“They are just what I wanted to see,” she said. “I have hardly ever been in the country in spring.”

“Let me get you some to take home and learn them. When I look at flowers, I almost think of how you will see them, and then I know how pretty they are.”

He put the long sprays into her hand, and they looked into one another’s eyes, and felt nothing but the spring, the flowers, and each other’s presence.

At first Guy wished for no more. He did not try to draw Florella more closely into his inner life, she made the outer one so fair. It was delightful to see her cut cake and pour out tea, to hear her chat to her aunt, or play with Rawdie, and when, at Mr Clifton’s suggestion, she undertook some little kindnesses to a few old women, a little notice of some rough girls, when she put her hand to the help of Waynflete, it seemed to Guy in truth like the descent of an angel.

A sweet and natural magic drowned the dark hues of his soul in rainbow tints. From the moment when he knew himself to love her, his inward appeal to her paused. So far as he knew, he had been to her but a soul in distress, and now he had a foolish, pathetic impulse to come to her in sunshine and flowers, to please her fancy, not to move her pity. So surely, he might touch her heart, just touch it—one day he might perhaps win it outright.

And she? She never “saw” his thoughts now; how could she, when the sight of his face blotted them out? She did not even get on very fast with painting his periwinkles. One little word about his trouble would have been sweeter to her than the bluest of blue flowers; the very word he was so careful not to speak.

For his blissful content did not last very long. Surface intercourse, however sweet, could not long be sufficient for him. He could not come to her as any other wooer might have done, and, if he could, he would not. He never swerved from his conviction, that until he was free from every trace of his strange bondage, he must never seek to take her to himself. “Why, Godfrey had not been able to stand the knowledge of his secret, should he inflict it upon her?” So he was distant and reserved, and gave her pain far worse than any that his confidence could have cost her.

But he himself was full of eager hope; and hope, doubtful of fulfilment, though a very good thing in its way, is something of a foe to patience.

But Art is impersonal. Downy palms and snown blackthorn may be offered to an artist as subjects for a sketch, just as well as if they would not also serve as tokens of love and hope. As Guy, one sunny morning, followed the path that all through Flete Dale led along by the riverside, he suffered no bud or blossom that indicated the coming of his tardy northern spring to escape him. As he gathered and combined them, it struck him that the glory of them was in the relief of their delicate tints and airy forms in the cold spring sunshine, against the pale spring sky, and that the thing would be to show them to Florella where they grew.

And, turning round a great tangle of rosy stems and shining brown buds, he saw her in the brown dress that had a sort of woodland tinting, and suited her, he thought, as well as harebell blue. She was listening to a tall, strong-limbed girl, with the handsome features and wind-blown complexion of the district, picturesquely set off by the yellow handkerchief which she wore on her head, listening with a troubled face. Her companion’s face was quite impassive, though there was a melancholy tone in her voice, as at sight of Guy, she turned off with a “Good day t’ye, sir.”

“Is that one of the girls you have been making friends with?” he said, after he had offered his spring buds to Florella, and she had taken them smiling, but still with wistful eyes.

“Yes. But I feel so ignorant and stupid with them. It is difficult quite to understand.” It was still more difficult, it was impossible to keep on the surface of things, when these two were together. But perhaps the inhabitants of Waynflete might be treated as an abstract subject, like the spring flowers. Rawdie thought that the discussion of their needs might occupy some time, and went off to investigate water-rats and other objects of interest.

“They talk to you, of course,” said Guy. “But no other stranger would get a word out of our folks.”

“They don’t talk much,” she answered. “But, one seems half to find out—and then one comes across such real troubles, and temptations. It seems so hard.”

“But, Clifton shouldn’t!” exclaimed Guy, with a sudden change. “There are very few people here fit for you to have anything to do with.”

“Oh, not that,” said Florella. “But, you see, I haven’t known much of any one but girls of my own sort. A friend of mine looks after a girl’s club in London, and some of us go to teach French and drawing there, or to sing. She thinks every one ought to spread whatever good things they may have. But it isn’t French and drawing that these girls want!”

“Do tell me just what you mean?” he said entreatingly, as they walked slowly on by the riverside.

“I mean,” she said, with a glow at thus taking counsel with him, which he little guessed, “that girls like me, tell each other their troubles, and we try to help each other, and sometimes we can. But one finds out much worse sorrows and trials than we ever have.”

“That is what you ought to have nothing to do with!” exclaimed Guy, imperatively.

“But,” she said, “you can’t help people just by being sorry for them in a general way. You have got to feel in yourself just what they feel. So one must try to understand them.”

Guy was silent. He could not keep his angel to himself. The more divine was the help she gave him, the more freely it must flow. He felt responsible for the welfare of Waynflete; he knew that he did not fight his battle for himself alone; but she had no obligations but the impulse to give herself in helpful love. She touched the flowers in her hand, and, with a sudden smile, said—

“You know, one has to ‘see.’”

“Yes,” he said, gravely. “Well! So the world was saved!”

She had given him the thought; but to herself it was new. She could not speak; while Guy felt for the moment as if the power to understand her had been cheaply bought by all the agony of his own experience.

They were brought suddenly back to earth again, to the spring flowers and the sunlight, and to the squalid cottages across the field, by wild and frantic barks from Rawdie, who rushed into view, wet and muddy, with a large rat in his mouth, while Jem Outhwaite, climbing up the bank behind him, cried out triumphantly, “He’ve got ’im, sir; he’ve got ’im hissel’!”

Rawdie went home in a state of absolute self-satisfaction. For Guy, it had been a moment for which to live; but, such are the conditions of this poor mortal life, that it was followed by a great reaction, by passionate longings to take this beloved maiden to himself, by the old disgust at all that was abnormal in his fate. He soon went back to Ingleby, where he puzzled Godfrey by fitful spirits, intermittent efforts to seem more like other people, and by hours of gloom and silence. The mental fever quieted down after a time, or perhaps he learnt to endure it.

But Florella was happier for the moment of approach. They had not ceased to understand each other. She could not paint the sun on the spring flowers, she could not satisfy herself with any tint with which she tried to match them. But, if light and hue escaped her, she could seize on their form, and she made delicate and exquisite pen-and-ink sketches of every swelling leaf and bursting bud.

She went, also, and stood on the bridge which she had seen in vision on that murky autumn evening, when her soul had followed Guy’s through its strange encounter. She looked at the laughing, living water, sparkling in the spring sunshine, and at the woods, now fresh and green. It was the fairest spot that ever was cursed by haunting memories. And yet, in the midst of all its sweetness, she felt conscious of something that she did not see, that eluded any insight that she might possess. And she did make some friends, and took into her heart some troubles, and learnt to love the weird and lovely place, because Guy loved it so much. She did not regret the London season which she was missing; she would not go and stay with the Stauntons to see the pictures; there were pictures enough in the woods, such as she had never seen before.

Once Godfrey came over on business about the estate, and came to call. He had lost his boyish manner, and had caught his brother’s gravity and reticence.

“Ah!” said Mrs Palmer, afterwards, when he had somehow extracted the fact that Constancy was working hard at college, and thinking of nothing but her examinations, “I’ve always known that boy admired Cosy. He’s too young for her, and Ingleby wouldn’t suit her at all. But clever girls often take to handsome men with nothing in them.”

“But Godfrey Waynflete has a good deal in him, Aunt Con.”

“Well, he hasn’t much to say. I expect Guy was too clever for old Mrs Waynflete, and wouldn’t give her her own way. But what Cosy will do when she comes home, I can’t think. She’ll never find enough to occupy her talents. I wish she would marry—some one who could give her a career.”

Florella did not pass over to her aunt a letter which she had just received from Constancy.

That Florella had powers of an unusual kind, except for painting, was an idea that had never formulated itself in the elder girl’s mind. Nevertheless, she was always open with her, and was never quite happy under her disapproval. She wrote—

“People ought not to have to decide on their future lives till they are thirty at least. I feel so extremely young sometimes. It’s much easier to learn moral philosophy than to find it make any difference in one’s life. I shall go in for society, and see if that has a developing effect. New sorts of people teach one more than hooks. I got heaps of ideas from Mrs Waynflete. All that business life was so new to one. I do like meeting new kinds of people. Every one here is so groovy. University life is very narrow. It is much more original and interesting, if you have brains, to spend them on doing than on learning. Mrs Waynflete was far cleverer than any literary woman. I am glad Guy is better, and that ‘Mr Godfra’,’ as old Cooper called him, is being such a good boy, and minding his business. If you can manage a private interview with Rawdie, you might give him my love. The only thing I regret in the events of last summer, is that that enchanting beast’s former master promised to get me a similar puppy. And now that chance is lost to me for ever. Well, I have no more time. If I don’t come a cropper, I believe Miss —, will offer me a lectureship here. Only in that way shall I think of coming back again. But I think a London winter would pay best. The tour with the Stauntons is the next thing, at any rate, and I mean to enjoy that to my heart’s content.” Florella mused over this letter. She thought it significant that Cosy should find time to speculate on life, when her final examination was imminent, and she understood the veiled allusion to the attentive professor, whose attentions, though she did not know it, had been so carefully brought to Godfrey’s notice by Cousin Susan. She had always thought that Cosy had liked Godfrey better than she had chosen to confess. But she had done her best to offend him, and with her sister he was stiff and shy. Besides, there was a general belief that he was engaged to Jeanie. He did not look very happy, and Guy had never dropped a hint of such an arrangement, and always managed to put Godfrey in a favourable light, in any chance mention of his name.

But Florella had heard Cuthbert Staunton call him a “young ruffian,” and she could not think him good enough for her brilliant sister. He was certainly on Constancy’s conscience; but whether he was also on her heart, was a different matter. On the whole, Florella hoped not.

Part 3, Chapter VII.

Life and Death.

Constancy’s college career ended, as had always been anticipated, with credit, and even with a share of renown. She helped to prove the power of her sex to compete for laurels formerly reserved for the other, and she was made much of accordingly. She was very much pleased, and not greatly surprised, for the kind of power that she possessed is rarely unconscious. It was not through the sense of intellectual failure that the gospel was to come to her. She was not even tired with the hard work, only ready for a holiday, and Kitty and Violet Staunton were glad enough to share it with her.

So off they went, prepared for every sort of exercise and adventure. After about a fortnight of successful sight-seeing the three ladies found themselves in a charming little settlement in a broad mountain valley, which we will here call Zwei-brÜcken, where cool green rivers rushed through green fields and flowed from the heart of dark, snow-tipped mountains. There were large fawn-coloured oxen and little fawn-coloured goats, houses surprisingly like toy Swiss cottages, and a new hotel in the same style, with the usual variety of tourists. It was a centre for mountain ascents and for excursions, and Constancy and Violet sat under a wide verandah, on the afternoon of their arrival, and watched the groups of travellers.

“Don’t you remember,” said Constancy, “talking about the feeling of London? What’s the feeling of this? It’s green, it’s cool, it’s windy, it’s rushing and fresh.”

“When Guy Waynflete came in in the middle, and we settled about Moorhead,” said Violet, “I was provoked with him this year for not going abroad when he promised, for Cuthbert simply buried himself in the British Museum, and said all the sources of culture were to be found there.”

Constancy did not answer; she had fallen into a dream. She leant her chin on her hand, and looked over the wide valley, while into her open eyes there came the same look with which Florella “saw” the picture in her flowers. At such moments there was a promise for the future in Constancy’s young face of which, with all her successes, the present had shown no performance. Suddenly her intent look brightened.

“The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty,” she exclaimed. “You can’t get ‘back of that.’ Free, free, free! That’s the feeling of it! The river, the wind, the sky—every one out on a holiday, and—the curate there in his flannels, how he enjoys them. It makes one a little mad— Why, Vi! Good gracious!”

For Violet, in startling confirmation of the last words, had suddenly rushed forward and launched herself on the neck of a young man in brown tweed, who was coming up the steps of the verandah.

“Cuth, Cuth! Oh, how lovely! Oh, did you know we were here?”

“I have known long enough to mitigate my alarm at your greeting. Your letters were at the post-office. Yes—here we are. How do you do, Miss Vyner?”

“I shall believe in brain-waves in future,” said Constancy, as she gave him her hand. “I had just recalled a conversation with you and Mr Waynflete, and I see you coming. Is he with you?”

“Yes, at last. His brother thought him overworked, and very sensibly wrote to me to come and carry him off. There he is.”

Constancy had not seen Guy for more than nine months, her last remembrance of him was among the dancers at the Kirkton Hall garden-party, and she realised at once, as he came along the verandah, that the slight youth with his pathetic eyes had grown into a very remarkable person.

“Why—he looks like a mystic, or a martyr!” she thought. “No wonder people turn and look at him. It’s a startling face.”

Guy’s greeting was, however, simple enough. He was cordial, but he smiled his little reserved smile as he said—

“Yes, it was very good of Staunton to wait for me. I couldn’t get away before. When I go back, I hope Godfrey will go to Scotland and get some shooting.”

“And Rawdie? Is he thriving? And have you seen my aunt and Florella? Are they quite settled at Waynflete?”

Guy answered appropriately, and presently took his letters, and went away to study them.

He was still sitting in a quiet corner of the verandah, when Staunton, who had remained to exchange news and plans with his sisters, came in search of him.

“The girls are getting coffee,” he said, “and then they are going to stroll out and see the bridges. Will you come?”

“Better not. I walk so slowly. I’ll come and meet you.”

“Come now,” said Cuthbert. “This trip isn’t quite answering for you. What is it? You must tell me just what you like.”

“Well—new places and so many changing people worry me. He—it looks uncommonly grim and grotesque in new combinations. It spoils the look of the world. It’s a little queer, you know, and tiring. I’m much stronger, really; I can do what I’ve got to do. But I expect that’s about all. It’s months since the real trouble touched me; but I think there’s something more to come—some day.”

“Suppose we find some more out-of-the-way place, and stay there quietly. What you really want is rest.”

“No. I like this place, and everything is really going on well with us. Godfrey shall get out of his hole yet. Oh no, I’m not beaten. We’re not going to the dogs ourselves, nor is Waynflete. And as for other things—well—the world goes wrong with others.”

He glanced at Cuthbert for a moment, then sat upright, and said—

“It won’t do, of course, to shirk any of it. I’ll come. I want to cultivate Miss Constancy, and improve my mind.”

Cuthbert made no demur. He thought that the change, however painful, had not come a moment too soon. He had never favoured the notion of a definite task to be accomplished; a definite foe to be conquered. He could not square such a view with any habit of his mind. But Guy had certainly accomplished something. Was it given to man to do so much, and yet to have more? Cuthbert knew well how sweet the outlook was into “the level of every day,” how natural and healthful were the hopes, and even the fears, that had dawned on Guy’s spirit. But could flowers grow on such a field of battle?

Constancy and her friends intended to spend at least a week at Zwei-brÜcken.

Guy said that it looked bad to ride when the ladies were walking, but he was able in this way to share in mountain expeditions, and Cuthbert hoped that he enjoyed them. Constancy had always liked him, and was ready to plunge into all the new discussions for which her recent studies had prepared her. She was well aware that he now and then said things which enabled her to think as well as talk, and he argued with her, and drew her out, feeling as if she were a clever and agreeable child. When he cut out a square of tiny flowerets and still tinier growths of leaf and blade, and packed it carefully in a sandwich box to send it home, he felt as if he was laying an offering before a shrine. When he studied the names of the flowers with Constancy, he felt that he had a good comrade in a mountain ramble.

One day something happened to her. She went out alone by a little craggy path behind the hotel, which led along the top of a steep descent to the river. She pursued it thinking of nothing but of adding a new specimen or two to her store of flowers, and presently saw a dog-rose of a peculiarly bright pink, hanging over the edge, and bent to pick it; the stone on which she stepped gave way, and she slid downwards, and stopped herself by catching at the rose just on the edge of—nothing. An inch further, and she would have fallen into the roaring torrent a hundred feet below.

For one awful moment, she believed that she could not turn and save herself; the next, strong, cool, and active, she had cautiously felt for hand and foot hold, and began to climb up again, to find her hand, as she neared the top, enclosed in a firm clasp, while Guy’s voice said—

“Steady; you’re all right. Hold on. I can’t lift you, but I won’t let you go.”

As he spoke, she was safe on the path again, but shaking from head to foot. He drew her away from the edge of the precipice, and she sat down on a bit of rock, and hid her face in her hands. She was mentally, as well as physically, dizzy, and he did not speak to her till she dropped her hands on her lap, and said, with an odd ring in her voice—

“Well! I was nearly killed!”

“Your nerve saved you. You were nearly safe when I came up, but it was an awkward place. Remember, you can’t be too careful on a mountain.”

“Well!” she said again, “I thought I should be killed; I thought of everything. I thought of the bit in the college magazine about me—about my being found—and Florella—”

“Yes,” said Guy, “one does think, in such moments, of the dearest.”

Constancy was silent. A deep crimson blush burned over her face and neck down to her very finger-tips.

Suddenly she turned, and looked up in his face.

“If I had been killed, there’d have been an end of me to all intents and purposes. I don’t care for anything that could go on. Oh, I don’t mean anything about opinions; but there couldn’t be anything afterwards that’s real to me. There couldn’t be anything that I want.”

“You have found that out,” said Guy.

“I never thought about God at all,” she said abruptly. “He never came into my head!”

“Well, He has come now,” said Guy.

She recognised his tone of conviction. Thoughts, speculations, flashed into her mind, at last, not as words, but as facts.

“Well,” she cried again, “if I didn’t believe in Him, I’d have stood to it, and not been afraid. But I do—I always have—and yet I just forgot Him—then.”

“But not now,” said Guy. “I think I ought to take you back,” he added; “you ought to rest, and recover yourself.”

“I’ll go back,” she said, standing up. “But I’m quite well.”

She walked on slowly beside him; but presently broke out again.

“You’ve been very ill, I know. Did you think then that to die, and leave off everything would be—horrid?”

“No,” he answered. “For one thing, when I’ve been in danger, I’ve been too bad to know it. But I do know what it is to face—destruction. And certainly there is something beyond it.”

She turned round to him as they came up to the hotel.

“I’m awfully obliged to you,” she said, in girlish speech, but in a deeply moved voice.

“You’ll not tell any one, will you? I want to think about it quietly.”

Guy promised, and they came back on to the verandah together.

Part 3, Chapter VIII.

Mr Van Brunt.

There was a little commotion in front of the verandah, caused by some new arrivals, as Guy and Constancy approached it from the side. A stout lady in a bonnet and a handsome travelling-cloak, came up the steps, looked round her, and made a sudden rush towards them.

“My dear Guy! Oh, what a delightful surprise! I never was so glad to see any one. After all these months, it is indeed a relief to see some one of the family.”

And Mrs Joshua Palmer seized Guy’s hands, and all but embraced him; a ceremony he had carefully avoided from his earliest childhood.

“Why, Cousin Susan! I didn’t know you were still abroad. I’m very glad to see you,” he said, astonished at this effusive greeting.

“And Miss Vyner? How do you do, my love? Well, Guy, and how are you? and is dear Godfrey here too? Jeanie, Jeanie, here’s your cousin.”

Jeanie, blooming, and very well turned out, came up also with outstretched hand.

“How d’ye do, Guy? I’m very glad we’ve met you.”

“You look very warm, Cousin Susan,” said Guy; “won’t you sit down and have some coffee? I suppose your courier—you have one, I see—has engaged your rooms?”

“Oh, my dear Guy, that is part of the pleasure of seeing you. For I am quite certain that courier is a cheat, and if you, with your head for figures, would only look at our bills—” Here she tore open a travelling-bag, and thrust a bundle of papers into his hands. “I can speak to you...”

“Well, mother,” said Jeanie, “you never would allow any one else to help you to manage, however well accustomed they were to travelling.”

“No, Jeanie,” said Mrs Palmer, emphatically, “that I certainly would not.”

Constancy, unable for once to come to the front, sat down at a little distance. She heard Jeanie, with a much readier, and more assured manner than of old, saying all the things to the Stauntons that might be expected from a young lady on her travels. She said that the mountains were perfectly sweet, and so were the cows and the peasants. Mother got into fusses sometimes, but it did not matter; she was quite happy when she could sit down. They had met charming people. Constancy felt a frightful conviction that, if she spoke, she should cry.

After the manner of her day, and of her kind, however, she got over her agitation for herself. She never could have supposed that the sight and sound of Jeanie would be so aggravating. No more than she could have guessed beforehand, that the one face that would flash before her mental vision in that supreme moment, when life and death had hung in the balance, would be Godfrey’s, angry and miserable, as it had looked at her from the doorway at Moorhead, or in the dim light of the Stauntons’ drawing-room. That had come to her, and that was all.

Constancy endured this self-revelation in silence. She had not, at any rate, revealed this to Guy, in the moment of impulsive confidence that had ensued. What had induced her to say so much? She remembered that, in one of the discussions in which she delighted, she had cheerfully asked him what he thought Tennyson had meant by “the abysmal deeps of personality,” and he had answered dryly—

“I haven’t quite sounded them—yet.”

It had passed for a jest; but as she recalled the short, unexpected sentences with which he had answered her, she felt that he had meant it for a statement of fact, and of very remarkable fact too. It was characteristic of her that she speculated about Guy even at this moment of personal emotion.

She gave herself a little mental shake, and turned to get ready for the table-d’hÔte.

She had never been really unhappy in her life before. She had never really been beset by a thought that prevented her from thinking of what she wished to think of, and claimed her for its own.

Guy disliked the fatigue of the long dinner, and rarely attended it. He was sitting in his favourite corner, when a movement made him aware that people were coming out again, and Mrs Palmer, in much smarter clothes than of old, but with an unmistakable air of Ingleby and home, came and sat down by him.

“My dear Guy,” she said, “you’re one of the family, and I want to confide in you.”

Guy was not given to consider himself as one of the Palmers, but he accepted the compliment, and said—

“Is anything the matter, Cousin Susan?”

“Well, yes, Guy. I think there’s a great deal the matter. Indeed, perhaps it’s my duty to write to Mr Matthew; but he isn’t exactly considerate at a distance.”

Guy allowed that this might be the case.

“And—my responsibilities are great with Jeanie, so much admired and an heiress. And I’m quite sure there’s nothing to be gained by going out of one’s own circle, especially among foreigners and Americans—people of no character at all.”

Guy said that this charge was rather sweeping.

“Was there any American in particular?”

“Yes; there is a Mr Van Brunt. He has been most attentive, and followed us about. I shouldn’t be surprised if he came here. He speaks of himself as a man of fortune, and says his father has a great dry-goods store in Chicago. It doesn’t sound well—a store is a shop—very different from a mill. And, besides, if there’s one thing I like it’s constancy; and poor Godfrey at home in England—such cruel treatment for him, after that week at the Rabys.”

“But, Cousin Susan, it’s quite as easy to inquire about a man in Chicago as in London. Of course he ought to give a reference. And as for constancy,”—Guy could not help a little smile as he spoke,—“of course Godfrey knows that Jeanie is perfectly free. Our affairs made that imperative.”

“Oh, my dear Guy, I’d rather trust Palmer Brothers, in difficulties, than all the dry-goods stores in America out of them. Do reason with her, my dear Guy, and plead Godfrey’s cause. Jeanie is a very good girl; but, of course, she feels her independence. Couldn’t Godfrey come out, and look after his own interests?”

Guy was capable of hearing a good deal without committing himself. He would not promise to reason with Jeanie, nor to telegraph to Godfrey; but he agreed to interview Mr Van Brunt, and in his secret heart, he hoped that that dry-goods store in Chicago might prove to be solvent, and its owner’s character and intentions clear as the day, and that his duty as “one of the family” would not be to protect Jeanie from the snares of an adventurer.

There were sounds of arrival late that night, and when he came down the next morning, Jeanie waylaid him on the stairs, looking, in spite of her smart tailor-made frock and well-dressed hair, very like the shy Jeanie of the Mill House, Ingleby.

“Oh, Guy,” she said, “mother’s been talking to you—and please—I’ve got something to say. It’s your brother’s own fault, if I’ve changed my mind. Besides, I hadn’t seen anything of society then. I’ve quite a right, it was settled I had—to choose for myself.”

“Certainly,” said Guy, leading the way out on to the verandah. “I’ve promised your mother to talk to Mr Van Brunt, if he comes.”

“He has come,” said Jeanie, meekly. “He came after we went to bed last night. Oh,”—sitting down at one of the little tables laid for breakfast, and making a pattern on the tablecloth with the rolls—“people are silly—and—and there was ever so much nonsense at Kirkton. But there—Godfrey won’t be disappointed. I’m sure, if he had wanted to come back, he never would have stopped away because you were ill. Any one may give away roses to anybody. But when you leave them behind on your dressing-table, and they come down in the vase, to be done up for the next person—well, you don’t care very much anyhow. Oh—oh—you didn’t stay long at Munich, Mr Van Brunt—good morning. This is my cousin—Mr Waynflete.”

A slender, dark-haired young man, with bright eyes behind a pair of pince-nez, made Guy a formal bow, and Jeanie vanished, while her “cousin,” considerably embarrassed, bowed much less gracefully, and remarked that it was a fine morning.

“It is so,” remarked the American; “but, Mr Waynflete, I’m very glad to make your acquaintance, understanding that you take quite the place of a brother to Miss Palmer.”

“Well—a—not exactly,” began Guy, thinking that Jeanie must have come down very early to produce this understanding.

“She assures me that, if you are satisfied, her mother’s scruples will be set at rest. Allow me to make it clear. Here is my card—Lawrence P. Van Brunt. I refer to my bankers, — and —, London, and to the American Minister in Great Britain, also the British Consul at Chicago. I—I dare say I may seem hurried, but I came over a month ago on business, and must cross again in a fortnight.”

He laid a row of papers and letters of introduction beside the rolls on the table.

“I—I don’t care what I do to post you up in my circumstances—it’s all perfectly square, I assure you. And Miss Palmer allows me to hope.”

“I see no reason why you should not apply to Miss Palmer’s uncle and trustee,” said Guy, after a little more had passed.

“Yes; but I’m told you have great influence with her mamma!” said the young American, wistfully.

“I didn’t know it,” said Guy; but he met the stranger’s eyes, and they both laughed. “Won’t you have some breakfast? Staunton, this is a friend of Mrs Palmer’s, Mr Van Brunt. Have you ordered coffee?”

Mr Van Brunt swept up his papers, and sat cheerfully down, proceeding to make himself very agreeable. The other little tables filled. Jeanie and her mother sat at one some way off. Constancy, with her friends, watched curiously, till the stranger, as soon as he politely could, edged off towards the object of his attraction.

“Eh what?” said Staunton, as the grave Guy for once went off into a hearty fit of laughter.

“Oh, I say!” he said; “it was quite outfacing. Fancy playing heavy father to Jeanie! I’d better wire to Godfrey at once.”

The energetic American produced a Continental Bradshaw, and proposed to start that afternoon to interview Mr Matthew. First, however, he went to walk with Jeanie.

And poor Cousin Susan, wiping her eyes, and with a heart full of feelings, of which the young ones took little enough heed, exclaimed, as she finally yielded the point—

“Oh, Guy, dear aunt would have thought me so weak. Chicago!”

The party soon dispersed. Jeanie and her mother followed the ardent lover home to Rilston; Constancy and her friends pursued their intended path among the heights of the Tyrol; while the good-hearted Cuthbert managed to find sources of culture wherever he fancied that Guy was most at ease.

Godfrey was evidently ashamed to express relief on paper, and simply wrote, “I shall begin again,” but there was new purpose in every line of his letters, and most affectionate promises of keeping everything straight, if Guy would only stay away, get strong, and enjoy himself.

Guy said no more about himself; but he had little ways which showed his friend that he still had something to undergo. The steady look round in a fresh place, the shading hand over his eyes, the trick he had of finding a special corner, and of keeping to it, with his face turned one way, were significant; and he was more silent and quiet than ever; but also much more gentle. Cuthbert hardly knew how, one still bright evening, when some trifle recalled his own past, he found himself telling the story long buried even from himself.

Guy listened, looking at him with his searching eyes.

“Does it all seem over?” he said.

“Ah well,” said Cuthbert, with a long sigh, “I can’t say no. For average people like me, death is parting for the present, and as to the future—I’ll leave it in the Hands that frame it. But for me, the moss has grown over her grave, I’m not unhappy, but I think the kind of business is over for me. No, Gladys was quite human, it all belonged to this good earth of ours, and it was very good—while it lasted—and worth while.”

“Love does not belong to earth,” said Guy; “it is never over.”

“Ah, my boy,” said Cuthbert, “not for you, perhaps; but I’m a blind old earthworm, and my soul doesn’t soar. Yours is a blessed conviction.”

“Yes,” said Guy; “it is. But it isn’t quite so sweet—as—as having it now.”

He moved hurriedly away. He had gained a “blessed conviction.” But it is very hard to feel as well as to know, that the soul is worth the whole world, the whole “good earth,” as Cuthbert truly called it.

He came home early in August, with much-improved physical health, to find Godfrey like another man, full of the prospects of the business, and as he shortly expressed it, “out of his hole.” Rawdie was in raptures.

“He has got along,” said Godfrey, “by worrying cats and hiding bones. But he will sleep on your bed, and sit on your slippers. Just look at the sentimental little beggar, cuddling into your waistcoat.”

Guy sat down when his brother left him, in his old corner in the study, with Rawdie on his knee, and looked round him. The sense of constant effort slipped away from him.

“I can do here,” he said to himself, in his northern idiom, “I’m used to it. One must pay the price.”

Part 3, Chapter IX.

The Arch-Fear.

One sunny afternoon towards the end of August, Florella was sitting on the wall of old Peggy Outhwaite’s garden, sketching a tuft of house-leek that adorned the roof of the ancient and ill-kept cottage. This little homestead, which was Peggy’s own, and had belonged to her fathers before her, was tucked into a corner of the wood above the Flete, through which the footpath led up to the Hall; the cottage was reached from that side by a little side-track.

The like of Florella had never come into Peggy’s life before, and she took to this new kind of creature very kindly, finding her a most attentive listener to Waynflete traditions.

Whether in old Peggy, inglorious, though not mute, there rested the soul of a romance writer, or whether, as she herself averred, the Outhwaites knew a deal, she told “Miss Flowra,” as she called Florella, more about “t’ owd Guy” than any one had ever heard before. She was a true reciter; and while Florella sketched, she would stand before her, and describe the passage of the Flete on that awful night when Waynflete was lost, as if she herself had been standing by. She told her the original legend of the traitor who had betrayed his friend’s life, and therefore had “walked” ever since. She mentioned his appearances, and talked about him with a kind of grotesque familiarity as if “t’ owd gen’leman” had been in the habit of taking constitutionals about the valley. But now and then her tone deepened.

“Eh, my dear,” she said, “ye mun look on’t aright. A poor lost soul does na’ coom back to tempt, but to warn—to warn us fra’ sin, Missy. He’s boun’ to coom, though happen the devil drives ’un. But ’tisna a’ can see. T’ owd Guy may walk oop till most on us, and we be noon wiser. There’s my Jem, puir lad, sees ’un, he do, and Mr Guy, he knaws ’un well.”

“Did he ever tell you so?” said Florella.

“Eh, d’ye think I need tellin’? Eh, there a be. Good day to ye, sir.”

Florella’s palette fell out of her hand before this friendly greeting revealed to her that it was not the old, but the young Guy, who stood at the garden gate.

He had not been at Waynflete since his return, and now came forward with outstretched hand, while Jem appeared behind him like his shadow.

“Godfrey has been away,” he said, “and I couldn’t get over before. I have come to the Vicarage for a week. There are a good many arrangements to make, and I want to ask Mrs John Palmer a favour. I should like—it’s an odd fancy—but I should like old Miss Maxwell, the Stauntons’ cousin, to come to the church opening. You saw her, I think. I know Mrs Palmer is going kindly to do the entertaining.”

“Oh yes,” said Florella. “I had thought of her. But she’d like you to ask her yourself.”

“So I know,” he said; “I shall ride over. Staunton says he won’t come in the character of an hereditary foe; but I shall get him somehow.”

“We asked Violet,” said Florella, “and she says that ancestors are such a novelty that she is delighted to have even a villain.”

Guy and Florella had a laugh in common as he turned and spoke to Peggy, and she gathered up her sketching things.

“Eh,” said the old woman, as they went out at the gate together, “t’ owd Guy winna mak’ an end yet o’ Waynfletes!”

When old Miss Maxwell, picking York and Lancaster roses in her little garden, looked down the bleak grey street of Ouselwell, and beheld a stranger riding up, she felt, as she said afterwards, a presentiment of something unusual, which, as strange and striking young men were not common in Ouselwell, was perhaps not surprising. But it was fulfilled when the stranger left his horse at the inn, and walking up to her gate, bowed politely, and introduced himself as Guy Waynflete, a friend of her cousin, Mr Cuthbert Staunton.

Miss Maxwell made him a formal bow and led him into her little drawing-room, and the little old maid and the tall young man sat down opposite to each other, and Guy said quite simply—

“Miss Maxwell, we have been restoring Waynflete Church. It is to be opened on Michaelmas Day, and my brother and I wish very much that you should be with us on the occasion. We have to thank you for the family papers which you allowed us to have.”

“You do me a great honour, Mr Waynflete,” said the old lady, formally. “It is long since I was so far from home; but I should, I assure you, be glad to share in the rejoicing. Although the relations between our families were not as happy as could be wished, yet somehow, sir, any connection so long ago creates an interest.”

“Yes,” said Guy; “that is just my feeling.”

Then she gave Guy bread and salt in the shape of tea and hot cakes, and lapsed into more friendly chat, shaking hands tenderly with him when he took leave, and the interview, a somewhat quaint one for the end of the nineteenth century, concluded.

“A most distinguished young man,” as she wrote to Kitty Staunton; “but I fear he has the look of a doom upon him.”

“Which only means that he looks delicate,” said Constancy, when this cheerful sentence found its way to Waynflete.

For Constancy was there, having finished her trip, and having assured herself that Godfrey was pretty well tied to Ingleby. The world was going well. The old incapable tenant of Upper Flete, the only farm on the estate of any value, died, and was succeeded by a nephew, with more education and capital, who came to terms with Godfrey as to needful improvements, and rented some more land. A purchaser was found for the copse-wood, which had not been cut for many years, who bought it standing, and undertook all the expenses of cutting and carriage. A great change would therefore soon be seen in the whole aspect of the valley, and, as for the house, Mrs John Palmer’s fancy for it continued, and she thought of taking it, as she could well afford to do, for a summer residence; in which case, she would, no doubt, prove a good friend to the village.

Godfrey came forward and made all the arrangements without any apparent reluctance; but a queer little smile, not unlike his brother’s, came over his face when he was questioned by the neighbouring squires on his views on preserving or politics, and he would not commit himself as to the future.

All this was satisfactory to Guy, and so, in another way, was his “reconciliation” with the last of the Maxwells of Ouseley. Matters seemed to be drawing towards a point of success, of which the coming gathering was a kind of symbol. As he was returning from a ride in the broad, spreading sunlight of an August afternoon, he thought of all that the past year had brought to him. It was but a year since he had shown Florella the picture in the octagon-room, and her words had roused him to make a fight for his freedom. Till she touched his spirit, he had been tossed and driven in helpless and hopeless bondage to fear, his one notion of fortitude, concealment, his one refuge, a remedy worse than the disease. That danger he recognised with critical self-knowledge, had, in his case, been born of fear, and was itself something of a spectre of his fancy. Apart from maddening terror, he would never “take to drink.” And, after this year of stern and steady conflict, it did not seem to him that any bewilderment of the senses could ever again terrify him beyond the power of self-control. While, as for that inward sense of possession, that presence, which for him lay behind all else, if that should spring into consciousness again, after its long sleep, he was prepared to face it. There was another force, deeper and stronger still, which, in dim and awful glory, had made itself felt within him.

Guy believed that his soul was saved. There are no other words for it, though these may convey a hundred other meanings. But there was “more to come.” Whether this conviction was well-founded, or whether, as Cuthbert would have told him, it sprang from the depression of exhausted nerves and spirits; from the melancholy too often associated with trials such as his, it equally proved that he was not free as other men were for the sweetness of life and love.

As other men? Were other men free? “The drink” might have been a bugbear to him, but it was an awful fact to thousands of those others. How many devils had possessed his rough ancestors, whose clutch had not closed on him, because the one great gain of old Margaret’s courage had been that he and his brother began life on a higher level? How did this poor Jem Outhwaite, who burlesqued and caricatured his own grim experiences, come to be what he was? As this thought occurred to him, Jem himself started out of a gateway beside him, and, after a grin and nod of greeting, picked up Rawdie, and carried him over a muddy piece of ground, through which he himself humbly shambled beside Guy’s horse. The royal favourite should not needlessly wet his feet.

Jem was a conversational person, and fired off short remarks at intervals.

“Owd Cowperthwaite says Waynfletes’ll tak’ t’ bread out o’s mouth.”

“Old Cowperthwaite’s a scoundrel,” said Guy.

“Ay, sir,” said Jem, cheerfully. Then, after a pause, “I see twa rabbits over Flete Edge. Mr Godfrey can shoot ’em.”

“Ay, I dare say he will.”

“I see t’ owd gen’leman by t’ brig on Friday,” said Jem, in the same contented treble.

“Nay, Jem, I don’t think you did,” said Guy, didactically.

“I see Miss Flowra,” said Jem, in the same tone of cheerful indifference.

Guy sprang from his horse, and Jem, setting Rawdie delicately down on a bit of turf, grinned, nodded, shambled away across a field towards the river, and was out of sight in a minute.

“Oh,” said Florella, as she came up, “I hope Jem will go straight home, he has been about all day. Old Peggy is really ill. She got a chill the other day waiting for him at the bridge in the rain. You know he stops at the Dragon, and the doctor says he must be found quick, or it may go hard with her.”

“I know,” said Guy, briefly. “I’ll just go and put my horse up, and then go and fetch him. He’ll come with me. He was here this minute.”

“You know,” said Florella, in a half-whisper, “that he says t’ owd Guy stops him.”

“I know,” said Guy. “But don’t listen to stories about him. You mustn’t get to fancy the place is haunted.”

“I am not afraid,” she said, and there was a touch of reproach in her voice. Guy paused a moment, then spoke in another tone.

“I think I have been wrong,” he said. “I wanted you to forget what you had done for me, for fear the least influence from which you have saved me should breathe on your spirit. But you ought to know that you have saved me. You have led me to that saving Presence of which you spoke. Whatever may come, whatever it may cost, yet the snare is broken, and I am delivered.”

She looked at him without a word.

He went on in the same steady, controlled tones. “Now you see there’s another. Will you help that poor lad through the next hour, I think he’ll be hard pressed? Good-bye, he shall come to his mother. He shan’t be too late.” He took her hands, and bent as if to kiss them. A little sob broke from her, and in a moment the kiss was on her lips.

He was gone before the blood had time to burn up in her cheek, and she broke into a passion of tears, while formless and awful, all the terror that he might be going to meet, rushed over her spirit. She felt helpless, powerless, certain of evil. Her soul was full of mist and cloud. All she could do was, like a child, to follow his behest, and pray for Jem.

Guy, thrilled with a new and high excitement, put up his horse, and with Rawdie still at his heels, pursued his way towards the Dragon, intending to call Jem away from its enticing attractions, and to escort him over the old footbridge back to his mother. A simple thing to do, but he had only crossed that bridge once before.

The hot bright sunlight had thickened into a thundery mist, and the light rapidly faded. Guy was not tired now, he walked easily enough, nor did any perplexing thoughts beset him. He saw—no more than usual. He felt no inward horror. But upon his rapturous mood there fell as strong a conviction that he was going to dare his fate as if he had gone to pick up a bomb of dynamite. He felt as if the very air was a resisting force as he pushed on through it. He went on, and a deep sadness came upon him, and all in a moment, as he came to the top of the hollow, he knew that it was the expectation of death. He stopped and looked down into the mist. He could not see across the valley, and he could not see across that expectation. He could not think of any definite danger. He stood still with his eyes on the ground; upon the mist the spectral shape that went before him, showed out sharp and clear. Words came into his mind. “Fear not him that can kill the body.” But “the body” meant life and work, and love and joy. It meant Florella. Perhaps his body was the price that had to be paid for his soul. And when the end was past? What did death mean? When the spirit was free from the flesh, would the spiritual foes be gone? Or would the last veil be withdrawn from their terrible faces? What would await him in the world where the other Guy had gone before?

Guy went on down the hill till into the misty air gleamed the paraffin lamps of the Dragon public, and into his misty thoughts came the need of sharp and prompt action.

He stepped inside the door, and called out, “Is Jem Outhwaite here? I want him.”

Two or three men were standing about, in the bar. They looked at Guy, and fell back before him with surprising readiness.

“Here a be, sir,” said one, pushing Jem’s reluctant figure forward, as he tried to slink behind them.

“Come Jem,” said Guy; “your mother’s bad, and I’m going to take you back to her across the bridge. Come along with me.”

He laid his hand on Jem’s arm, and with a short “Good evening,” pulled him out of the cheerful circle, into the foggy dusk. Jem, who followed him usually like a dog, now hung back, and dragged against his hold, trembling and reluctant; not drunk, he thought, but manifestly dazed with fear. He was tall and big, and perhaps it was the dead weight of his resistance that made Guy feel as if the very mist oppressed him, and forced him back. Against himself, against his poor companion, against uncomprehended forces he struggled on.

“Sithee, there a be. We canna get by. He’ll get me!” gasped Jem, as he struggled.

“Jem,” said Guy, “I have got past him, though I was just as much afraid as you. And I am not going to let him stop you. He can’t do it, Jem. Say your prayers your mother taught you, and come on. He can’t stop you.”

“Eh, but he can—but he can! He’s a coomin’; he’s a gripped me!” gasped Jem, flinging his arms round Guy, and dragging him back, then shrinking behind him.

“No, he hasn’t, Jem,” said Guy, in clear, firm tones. “I’m going first over the bridge; so if he gets either of us, he’ll have me. You come after, like a man, and God have mercy on us both!”

Guy pushed forward. Surely the poor fellow would follow now! But again Jem held him back.

“Naw, sir,” said the poor half-wit, in his cracking treble, “I’ll gang ower first, and yo’ coom arter,” and with a quick, unsteady run, he shambled on to the bridge.

Godfrey had come to Waynflete Vicarage for a couple of nights, to make his final arrangements as to the timber. He was walking along the lane at the top of Flete Wood, in the dusk of this misty evening, when he heard an angry bark, and then a howl as of a dog in distress.

“That’s surely Rawdie,” he thought. “What can bring Guy down there?”

He hurried on to a point in the lane, where the fall of the ground made the river and the bridge visible, and looked down through the gathering dusk.

He saw figures on the bridge; whose, and how many he could not tell; but there was evidently a struggle in the middle. Was it a fight—or was one dragging or guiding the other? Were there two—or three? He gazed for a moment, puzzled and uncertain, then the bridge and the figures swung and reeled before his eyes, there was a noise of crashing timber, then a tremendous splash, and bridge and figures disappeared into the water.

Godfrey gave a great shout and call, as he sprang over the wall, and dashed headlong down the slope, over rock and wood and thicket, till he came to the edge of the river.

The great pool under the bridge was all stirred and seething with broken timber. Godfrey could see nothing else at first; but in a moment he caught sight of something like a human form. He jumped into the water. It was hardly out of his depth; but the floating, cracking timber made the greatest caution needful, and it was a minute or two before he could grip the collar of the man seen, and drag him towards the shore. It was Jem Outhwaite, dripping, shaking, choking with water, not absolutely senseless, but quite unable to help himself, as only by the exertion of all his great strength, the powerful Godfrey managed to tug him towards a shallow place, and pull him ashore.

“Who else—who else?” gasped Godfrey, breathlessly; but Jem was quite incapable of speech, and only cried feebly.

Godfrey pushed him on to a safe place, and stepped again into the pool. The water was very cold, and the planks and rails of the bridge were drifting and knocking about in the current, so that Godfrey had to be most careful in the uncertain light to feel his way among the timbers as he waded through the water. As it was, he tore his clothes and bruised his shoulders. He turned towards the relics of the bridge, and there, caught in the timbers, lay Guy, face upwards, swaying with the swaying piles.

Godfrey pushed his way near, and got his arms round him; but he was afraid of bringing down the whole fabric by one incautious movement. He raised Guy’s head against his shoulder, when a voice close above him said, clearly—

“I think I can help you. This first piece of plank is firm. Can we lift him on to it?”

He looked up. Constancy was standing on the planks of the broken bridge. Her steady eyes were looking down, her firm hand was stretched out.

Godfrey leant his shoulder against the still standing stake, and held Guy more firmly.

“No,” he said, steadily. “I can’t lift him from below, and you couldn’t do it. Listen. Go back to the shore, cross over the pebbles where the water is shallow above, then run to the Dragon and get help.”

She went without an instant’s delay, calling in loud clear tones as she went, tones that echoed through the wood and penetrated to the garden gate of old Peggy’s cottage, where Florella stood straining her eyes into the darkness. The next thing for her, when Guy left her, had been to go back to the old woman, to tell her cheerfully that Mr Guy was going to see Jem home, so that there was no need to worry herself about him.

“Eh then, hinny,” groaned Peggy, “bide till they coom, and mak yersell a coop a tay, for it’s weary wark waiting, though they’ll noan be lang getting ower t’ brig.”

Florella—such is life—looked at her watch to see how much time there remained before dinner, and, finding that she had an hour to spare, proceeded to boil the kettle and make the tea, while Peggy praised her handiness, and took her tea with pleasure, as she sat in her old wooden chair by the fire. She looked quite cheerful and absorbed in the present; while on Florella’s mind pressed a weight of fear. Her hands were cold, she could not swallow the tea. Yet what was there to be afraid of?

“Eh,” said Peggy, with a chuckle, “t’ owd gen’leman’ll meet his match wi’ twa on em. Gae oot till t’ gate, honey, and see if they’re coomin’ up t’ path.”

Florella went gladly. She stood at the gate, and strained her ears and eyes. Surely the water rushed noisily below, surely there were sounds of—something. Suddenly there was a loud, clear call, in a woman’s voice.

“Cooey—cooey.”

No one in Waynflete but Constancy could have uttered that call, and Florella answered it with another, then flew down the path towards the bridge, just as a man ran down the field from the opposite side. She saw this man plunge into the water, and fight his way towards the ruin of the bridge. Then in the dusk she saw him reach another figure staggering under a weight. Slowly and with difficulty they reached the shore, and laid their heavy burden down.

“Eh!” cried the new-comer; “Eh—Lord a’ mercy on us. Eh! It’s Mr Guy, drooned dead!”

Then Florella knew of what she had been afraid.

She could never clearly recall what next happened. The news of the catastrophe suddenly spread, so that, as it seemed, a crowd came up. Constancy’s clear voice, self-possessed and resolute, sounded through the confusion.

“He had better be carried to the Hall; it is much nearer than the Vicarage, and I will run on and make ready.”

Rougher tones close by, as some one shook poor Jem by the shoulder.

“Coom, man, coom; coom till mither. Nay, tha bain’t droonded yet.”

Then Constancy again, as she went away.

“Flo, you had better run on first, and prepare the poor old woman.”

They had lifted Guy up, and were carrying him away, and the fleet-footed Constancy was far ahead, before her words had penetrated Florella’s brain. Then she climbed up the hill to the cottage, where she found neighbours gathering, and close behind her came Jem, hauled along by a friend, dripping and scared, but alive, and able to swallow, as a friendly neighbour poured hot drink down his throat.

“T’ owd gen’leman’d a thrawed me in t’ watter, but Mr Guy thrawed ’un in instead, and t’ brig smashed,” was his story.

“Eh, eh!” said Peggy; “he’s got ’is death, and Mr Guy, too. Eh! they can baith lig in t’ new kirkyard, and me alongside on ’em.”

There was nothing for Florella to do, and she fled from this grotesque presentment of the mystic horror that haunted her. As she came up to the Hall, the doctor tore past her in his gig, having happily been caught close at hand. Guy had been carried upstairs, and Mrs John Palmer, flurried, but full of kindness, was saying—

“Oh yes, Cosy; yes, you were quite right, my dear. So much more appropriate that he should die under this roof.”

Florella came in, and sat down in the lamp-lit drawing-room.

“Is he dead?” she said, in a slow, dull voice.

“They don’t know,” said Constancy. “We’d better see that they have plenty of hot blankets, and what’s wanted.”

She went off to the kitchen; but Florella sat, stupid and helpless, it seemed to her, for hours.

Then there were voices in the hall, and then the sound of the gig driving off at full speed. Still Florella never moved, till Mrs Palmer came in.

“The vicar’s gone in the gig to get dry things for Godfrey; he won’t leave his brother.”

“Then Guy isn’t dead?” said Florella, composedly.

“No; just breathing. He was caught in the timber so that his head was above water. It’s the shock to the heart that has done it. But he isn’t gone—yet.”

Then Florella came to herself with a shock that was like the stab of a knife. The room swayed and darkened, and she barely kept her senses; but in a moment the life forces seemed to come back again with pain and anguish, but clear and ready for action.

“I’ll go and help Cosy,” she said.

Mrs Palmer had an effective maid, who was able to carry out the doctor’s directions, and the other women prepared what was needed, till the news came downstairs that the long fainting-fit had yielded at last, and Guy was able to swallow, and had moved and opened his eyes, though without any sign of recognition.

“The doctor would stay for the night, and every one not wanted had better go to bed.”

“Godfrey sits there, at the foot of the bed, like a big dog,” said the vicar, as he came downstairs. “He’s no earthly good, but he won’t stir.”

When Godfrey, pale with that long, mute watch, and not daring to take hope from the mere fact that his brother still lived, at last went down to breakfast, there by the table sat Constancy, holding Rawdie on her knee, and feeding him with bits of chicken.

“Oh,” she said, “this poor little darling must have been in the wood all night. See, his paw is hurt; he came crying to the door this morning.”

“Let me take him to Guy,” said Godfrey, eagerly. “He might notice him—he has never come to himself.”

“Not till you have had some breakfast,” said Cosy, with brisk decision. “The first principle of nursing is to take care of yourself.”

Godfrey was not capable just then of going back to first principles; but to be taken care of by Constancy was something new, and his spirit revived as she poured out coffee for him, and cut bread, and insisted on his eating his breakfast. Presently the others came down, and the vicar, who had been out, came back, and the story of the accident was pieced together.

Florella had to tell how Guy had gone to fetch Jem Outhwaite back to his mother.

“So good-natured of him,” said Mrs Palmer.

Godfrey had heard Rawdie howl before anything had happened, and Constancy, being out in the wood, had heard his shout for help when he came down to the river.

“Old Cowperthwaite’s in a fright,” said the vicar. “He confesses that he had been used to keep ‘t’ owd brig’ repaired for his customers; but that since his notice, he’d let it alone. But I don’t see now why it smashed so completely.”

“Nor I,” said Godfrey. “I looked, and saw two or three figures—I couldn’t count in the mist—struggling. Of course it was Guy dragging Jem over. But I thought I saw three.”

“Jem is wandering, and off his head,” said the vicar. “He says ‘t’ owd Guy’ tried to throw him in.”

Godfrey looked very much startled; his colour changed, but he did not speak; and soon the question rose as to what next.

He must telegraph at once to Ingleby, and also he said, faltering, “If—if Guy—he would want Cuthbert Staunton.”

Mrs Palmer begged him to telegraph at once, and the doctor’s view was that they had better wait a few hours, and—see how things went, before doing anything more.

Florella heard, as in a dream. A numb dullness was on her spirit. Constancy came and told how Rawdie had been taken upstairs, and that Godfrey thought Guy had moved and touched him.

“Poor little dog!” said Florella.

Then Constancy, with unwonted confidence, told, in hushed accents, the story of her escape at Zwei-brÜcken, of her sense of the finality of death, and of Guy’s words, “There is something beyond.”

“He knew it,” Constancy said, in her strong, emphatic tones.

But even this did not stir Florella’s soul; she wanted something now.

Late in the evening, Cuthbert Staunton arrived, full of anxious concern, and it fell to Florella to give him supper, and to answer his questions as to what had happened. She went through it all, in a matter-of-fact voice; but she knew that Cuthbert knew what it all implied.

There was a little silence, and then she suddenly said—

“It has been all in vain!”

Then Cuthbert leant over the corner of the table, and laid his hand on hers; she seemed to him so young and lonely in her despair.

“My dear,” he said, in his kind voice, “he would not think so Very strange things have passed; but though I don’t see them quite as he does, he has made as noble a struggle as man ever made. And he has conquered. He has mastered his weakness, and risen above it. It is a thing never to be forgotten. Even if we lose him—as may be—as may be—I cannot think—I cannot think, Florella, that he will lose himself. And—I think you must not fail him now. The conditions of the fight are very mysterious, and I could not say that our courage may make no difference to him. His perceptions are keener than ours.”

“I’ll not fail him,” said Florella, with a light in her eyes. “I’ll fight it out too.”

She went up to her room, and knelt down by the bed, and fought as hard a fight with her own soul as ever Guy had waged with his.

If her thoughts could affect his, if her will could share in the struggle, she must not will for him a lesser thing than he had willed for himself. She would not pray only that Guy might live and not die; but that, at all costs, his work might be carried through, his victory completed. She must give him as he gave himself. She prayed the prayer of faith with all her waking will; but when at last, exhausted, she fell asleep, in her dreams she prayed that he might be given back to life.

Part 3, Chapter XI.

Waynflete of Waynflete.

And Guy did not die. At first he lay in a state of collapse, hardly kept alive from hour to hour, silent, motionless, and apparently unconscious of all around him; but gradually there was some slight improvement, now and then a response by word or look, more power of taking food, and a stronger pulse.

At last, about a week after the accident, on a calm sunny day, when Cuthbert was with him alone, he lay with open eyes, watching the window.

“Cuthbert!” he said suddenly.

“Yes,” said Cuthbert, quietly. “What is it? Want something?”

“Help me up, please. I want to look out of the window.”

They were the old imperative tones, and Cuthbert cautiously put his arm round him, and raised him a little. Guy looked out at the sunny garden, at the wooded hills, all round the room, and then up into Cuthbert’s face.

“Yes!” he said, “I thought so. The spectre’s gone.”

“That’s a good thing,” said Cuthbert; “but now you must be very still and quiet. Lie back again. You’re much better.”

“How’s Jem?” said Guy, after a minute.

“Well, he had a chill, you know; but he’s safe at home with his mother.”

“Oh,” said Guy, with a long breath, “the room looks so nice and natural! I’ve been looking at it for hours!” Then, “Don’t have that bridge mended. It must be in a new place.”

“You recollect all about its being broken?” said Cuthbert.

“Oh yes; I recollect everything. But I had to rest. I’ve really rested.”

“Go on resting,” said Cuthbert, quietly.

But Guy was always a surprising person. He came back to life with a suddenness and a vigour that, as the doctor said, showed “almost abnormal rallying power.” He was not allowed to move for fear of the least strain on his heart; but he was awake to everything, and soon made Godfrey lift him on to a sofa by the window, “to look at the world;” and his delight in so looking showed how the world had been recently spoiled for him. He was soon downstairs, in the garden, out for a drive; every step in recovery was achieved before any one thought he was ready for it, and each new enterprise seemed more enjoyable to him than the last.

The tension which had held the whole household on the stretch, relaxed. Preparations for the ceremony on Michaelmas Day were pushed forward with cheerful alacrity, and Guy took his own presence at it as a matter of course.

The wreck of the broken bridge was cleared away, and orders were given for a new one to be built of rough stone, nearer to the Dragon; while a different turn was to be given to the footpath.

“It was,” said Guy, “more convenient.”

Old Cooper, unable to endure his anxiety any longer, arrived one day in the Rilston fly to satisfy himself as to Mr Guy’s condition. He found Guy able to welcome him warmly, to ask searching questions as to what had been done during his illness, and to promise a speedy return to Ingleby.

“That’s well, Mr Guy,” said the old man. “We’ve made a fair year’s work of it at the mill, and it would be a pity if ye were cut off just as the business is looking up again.”

“I’ve got to thank you for giving me a start in the right direction,” said Guy, with meaning.

“Eh, sir,” said Cooper; “ye’ve done more than your aunt expected of you, and we’ll all be glad to see you at work again. I’m glad to have seen the place that the old lady set her heart on; but it’s but a lonesome situation. And you seem to have been far from fortunate in crossing yon beck.”

“Unlucky!” said Guy, as Godfrey went to show the old manager out, and left him alone with Staunton. “I can but wonder at my great good fortune. I was so sure that I was going to my death, that my life was the price I had to pay, that I can’t believe that I shall live; that I’ve come off scot-free for a ducking—so far.”

“Why, my dear boy, it was touch and go,” said Cuthbert.

“Ay. It was so queer to feel no contact myself with the terror, and to see poor Jem in the throes of the struggle. And he put me back, and went to face him first.” Here Guy faltered, and almost broke down. “He won the battle. But then, on the bridge—you’ll say I was faint, and felt the dead weight of Jem—there was nothing; but, well—people talk of the powers of the air. I could not stir—an inch. Then Jem yelled out, and I got loose, and the bridge cracked—no wonder!—I woke up here by degrees. I knew when you came and held my hand, and when Rawdie licked my face; but I couldn’t do a thing. I had to stop. And now to be alive—and alone!”

“Thank God, my boy, it’s all over.”

“Yes, I thank God,” said Guy. Then he added, quietly, “It doesn’t matter how much of it has been what you call natural, or what caused the horror that poor Jem burlesqued. I had to fight. It’s true enough—all temptations are common to man. I might have been as he is. Now, Cuthbert, let the rest be silence. I shall never speak of these things again. Believe me, they are all over. But, a thousand times I thank you.”

He looked up, and Cuthbert saw the conflict and the victory, both in his face.

The shadow, if shadow it could be called, was the fading out of life of poor Jem Outhwaite. Less ill at first than Guy, he had no vitality to resist the shock and chill he had received. He had one word more to say about the crossing of the bridge, when his poor feeble soul had put forth its one flower of courage, and he had tried to take the post of danger.

“Ay, sir,” he said, in his cracked voice, to all the vicar’s words of comfort and hope.

But, when Guy came at the very last to see him, he looked up in his face with a smile that was not foolish, and said—

“We thrawed t’ owd gen’leman in to t’ watter, not he we.”

His mother said that now her poor lad was safe, she could lie in her grave; but she never could have left him behind her. He was laid in the new churchyard, next to the grave of the old squire; and both, all barriers thrown down, awaited the consecrating words that would join their resting-places to those of their kindred and neighbours who rested in peace. Guy and Godfrey stood together at the head of his grave.

Godfrey, through all the time of suspense, had fallen into the way of bringing all his hopes and fears to Constancy. She had hunted him out to take exercise, just as she trotted Rawdie, who had been a devoted nurse to his master, daily round the garden, and sacrificed the peace of the stable-cat’s life, that he might have the refreshment of chasing her up a tree. Now, after the funeral, as Guy lingered to look at the progress made in the church restoration since he had last seen it, Godfrey went back and found her, as he hoped, taking Rawdie for a walk on the lawn.

It did not seem unusual when he began—“I’ve got something to ask you. Don’t you see how this place is like a part of Guy? Can’t you tell me how to make him see that that mere mistake must be undone? It is his. If he would but call it so. It is never out of his thoughts.”

“I think,” said Constancy, looking straight before her, “that it ought to be his. And I think you have done all you can to make up to him. And I think you are quite right to want to make up, and to care about it. And, I am ashamed of having said I did not think so. I was horrid and narrow and small. I always have been, ever since I played ghost for fun. I’m a ‘finished and finite clod, untroubled by a spark.’ That’s all.”

“Oh, Constancy,” cried Godfrey, unheeding, if recognising, this apt quotation. “You know that I’ve been a brute to Guy, and an ass about myself. Thank Heaven, Jeanie threw me over; she’ll be married next month. I’m a mere duffer compared to you; but I love you with all my heart and soul, and if you would—”

“Stop,” she said, with a kind of dignity; “you mustn’t make me.”

She stood still, her face turned away. Once, when she had been asked what she would do with her life, she had answered, “Why, live it, of course.” Would the life now offered her be really her own? The simple yielding of the ideal maiden, to whom the lover comes as a great god, with all the gifts of life in his hand, is not for such as she. She knew very well now, that it was “a big situation.”

“Yes” was not easy to speak; but “No” was impossible.

She turned towards him, pale, and with trembling lips.

“I never thought I would,” she said; “but—but you’ve been so much better than I have—all through—if you can’t be satisfied without me—we’d better try it—some day.”

Rawdie was found, soon afterwards, sitting by himself in another part of the garden. He had retired with discretion.

“And now, Guy,” said Godfrey, by-and-by, when his tale was told, and Guy, after more sympathetic congratulations, had dryly remarked that it was fortunate that Mr Van Brunt’s character and credit had proved above suspicion, “I want you to listen.

“You know well enough which of us has carried on Aunt Waynflete’s purpose. You know what she really meant, and that this wretched will was a mere mistake. But for you, the business would have gone to the dogs, and this place to the hammer, or, perhaps, to the devil; for, remember, I’m your own flesh and blood, and I know what this last year has been as well as you. And I can be just as determined. I took an oath, and I’ll not break it. And, look here, that’s as much an inward prompting of my soul as ever you knew in yours. It’s my share of the work. Now, for once, you must give in.”

“Yes, I will, Godfrey,” said Guy, “I’ll give in. And, my boy, I wouldn’t give the stoniest field in Waynflete for the finest estate in England; and I took it hard I hadn’t got it. I loved it from the first moment I saw it, and now—”

For once Guy faltered, and could not finish, but by a great squeeze of Godfrey’s hand, though the next minute he said—

“Mind, we’ll have to consider how to do it in a proper and legal manner. We’ll keep it quiet till that’s done.”

“All right,” said Godfrey. “Aunt Waynflete would be satisfied now.”

It was Michaelmas Eve, a lovely still day, without a leaf stirring. Florella was gathering Michaelmas daisies. Nobody thought much about her in these exciting days, and she did the odds and ends, and filled up the holes and corners. Suddenly a shadow fell on her flowers, and Guy’s voice said—

“I want you to come with me to look at the picture.”

“I’ll come,” she said, and they went slowly upstairs, and along the passage to the little octagon-room, flooded with autumn sunlight, and stood together in front of the picture.

“How could I think it was like you?” she said.

Guy smiled.

“You know,” he said. “I think you know all. I owe you my very soul, and for that which you have done, no words are holy enough.”

“It was not I!” she murmured.

“It was with you, and through you. God knows I could not have done without one help that came to me, Cuthbert Staunton—the hard work at the mill—even poor old Rawdie—I have been helped so much! And now, Florella, my body as well as my soul is free. I think that I shall never be a slave again. If my health holds out, if I can do man’s work in the world yet—when I have tested myself—will you let me come to you by-and-by? And, oh, Florella, my angel, my darling, will you be afraid to share my life then? Is it only pity you have for me? or is it— Can you love me, as well as help me?”

“A great deal more” said Florella, with half a sob. She stood for a moment, facing him with shining eyes. “I want you to take all myself—all there is of me,” she said, with a ring in her voice. “If—if that should come again to you, it shall get through my soul first.”

She hid her face on his breast; he held her in his arms, and, in the transfiguring sunlight, the sad eyes of the picture above their heads seemed at last to smile.

When there is a Prologue to a story, it should have an Epilogue as well. Should this take the sound of wedding-bells, when Flete Dale smiled in the sunlight, when the murky woods were cut away, and the dreary noise of the restless horseman was heard no more, when friends filled the old house with rejoicing, and the good days of Waynflete were come?

That would bring the story to a happy pause. But surely the true end of Guy Waynflete’s story, of the battle which every soul that is born into the world must fight, but which he waged under such strange conditions, is not here, but in that unseen world, where the souls of the old Waynfletes had gone before him, where the real issues of the battle are decided, where the real story began.

There only, where the souls of the wicked, as well as of the righteous, are in the hand of God, can be gathered the fruits of Guy’s victory.

The Epilogue of the story of Waynflete, as of all other stories, is elsewhere—is out of sight.

The End.

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