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.