Waynflete

Part 2, Chapter VI

 
“As I went down to the water-side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide.”
 

Mrs Waynflete said nothing about the effects of her fall on the bridge, but she did not quite recover from the shock of it; and, accidental as it had been, she knew quite well that it would not have happened if her tread had been as steady and her sight as clear as had been the case six months before. She had one or two other little slips and escapes, and she said to herself that they were “warnings.”

People often know their own condition much better than is supposed, or, than others do, and Mrs Waynflete knew as well as any doctor could have told her that her hour was coming. She was very glad that no one else appeared to suspect the fact. She did not like sympathy, and even yet she did not feel herself to require support. But she thought much within herself. Those two wills lay heavy on her mind, and so did Guy’s criticisms on the management of the mills. She hated to acknowledge as much; but she was really too clever and too experienced a woman not to know that there was more than a possibility of his being right. She had known too much of the books and accounts in past days not to know that of late she had not known them so well. Moreover, her first distaste to Waynflete continued. She did not get accustomed to the bed that she had to sleep in, nor to the chair she had to sit on. She scorned the young vicar, Mr Clifton. She even felt that she would have liked to have a talk with old Mr Whitman of Ingleby, and perhaps let him read her a chapter, though she never had consulted him in her life on any matter, spiritual or temporal. And on one point, in these autumn days, spent in this unfamiliar ancestral home, she changed her mind. She had always meant to be buried at Waynflete, though she had never chosen to live there; but, now, she resolved that she would lie by her husband’s side, in Ingleby churchyard. All her life had been spent at Ingleby; she had been born there, in the poor farmhouse which she had so despised. “The lads,” the male heirs, her brother’s descendants, might make their graves among the old Waynfletes if they liked. As she had dimly felt at first, the object of a life’s labour is not so dear as the labour itself; and whenever the charms of Waynflete were discussed, Margaret felt that she was an Ingleby woman. She was as constant to the facts of her life as she had been to the idea that had dominated it.

Under the influence of these feelings, she one day sat down, and wrote to Guy a note in which she told more of the truth than she had admitted to those living in the house with her.

“Waynflete Hall.

“My dear Guy, —

“I took your remarks as to the management of the business very much amiss, as it has always been my way to follow my own judgment, not finding that of other people any improvement on it. But I perceive that it is your right to have your say, and I wish to hear it. I am an old woman, and I shall not have my hand on things much longer. I feel my time is coming, and I would not wish to leave injustice behind me. So I desire that you come over here at once without delay, and put before me what you have got to say, and satisfy my mind on the points that lie between us. Besides, my dear, I wish to have you both here with me.

“Your loving aunt, —

“Margaret Waynflete.”

When Guy received this letter by the second post, on the day that Staunton went to Moorhead, the last sentence more than all the rest made him feel that he must start at once for Waynflete; manifestly the note had been delayed, or he would have got it in the morning. As it was, he could not reach Kirk Hinton till four o’clock.

He was touched and a good deal alarmed, not so much at the summons as at the inclination to listen to him, and hurriedly putting his papers together, set off, and at Ingleby station sent a telegram to Godfrey, since his old aunt disliked receiving them, saying briefly —

“Send trap without fail to meet the four train at Kirk Hinton.”

And then, moved partly by a desire to explain himself to Cuthbert, and partly by a sudden strange impulse to tell Florella what he was doing, he despatched the other to Moorhead. Spite of this impulse, he thought little of his dread of Waynflete, as he pursued his journey by train, and waited at the junction for that which was to take him to Kirk Hinton. He was very full of what he had to say to his aunt, and much moved at the tone of her summons.

As the train stopped at Kirk Hinton, the station-master hurried up.

“Mr Waynflete! Have you had a telegram from Waynflete Hall?”

“No; what’s the matter?”

“We despatched one, sir, an hour ago, to say that Mrs Waynflete had had an accident this morning. Here’s a copy, sir.”

“A telegram? What was it?”

“Aunt Waynflete has had a bad fall. Come. From Mrs Palmer to Guy Waynflete.”

Guy stood still for a moment, and caught his breath.

“They expect me,” he said. “Is the trap here?”

“No, sir; nothing’s here. We sent on your telegram this morning. The lad that brought this one said he gave it to Mr Godfrey.”

“I must go on,” said Guy. “Send my things as soon as you can. I suppose the field way is the quickest?”

“Yes, sir, by a matter of two miles. The evening’s very soft – we’ll be having a wet night. Good evening, sir. Keep on by the stiles. And I hope ye’ll not get there too late.”

The words struck on Guy’s ears, as he hurried down the hill in the dismal light of the October afternoon. When Godfrey, also troubled in spirit, had been forced to take this rough and dreary walk, its discomforts had added to his sense of anger and injury, but Guy hardly heeded them, though he knew that the six miles up and down the sharp edges of Flete Dale was almost more than he could manage without breaking down, especially as the sudden summons and alarming news had been a bad preparation for extra exertion.

“Too late!” If he did not reach his old aunt in time to satisfy her, if not about his view of the business, at least about himself, it would be a bitter hour for him indeed. If it was possible – if he could be satisfactory? Thoughts, hitherto latent, rose up so strong and full within him that he felt as if he had received a sudden increase of reasoning power, in spite of the fatigue against which he could hardly struggle.

There was his bad health to begin with. How could he ever satisfy any one, any more than that Guy Waynflete whose face, whose constitution, and doubtless whose soul he inherited? That Guy 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.