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.