"_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?"