Waynflete

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.