Fifty thousand pounds! For a penniless girl to find herself suddenly
possessed of such a golden dower is a very wonderful experience. This
was the fate which, towards the end of November, descended upon little
Jeanie Palmer, and, as she truly said, "It was quite upsetting." It
came in a natural, though unexpected manner. An uncle died, possessed
of a much larger fortune than had been supposed, and divided it by will,
between Jeanie and another niece. That "something" might come to her
from this quarter, her mother had always hoped; but nothing so splendid
had ever been anticipated. It meant, in the first place, frocks of an
altogether different quality to any Jeanie had previously possessed;
and, in the second, an entire change of plans for herself and her
mother.
It had been a great advantage last summer to come to Ingleby, and live
in so comfortable and dignified a fashion; but now Jeanie would have her
own house, and needed her mother to arrange it for her.
Besides, Godfrey would be coming back, and if he chose to seek out
Jeanie again, he should see her in a new light. No one would ever feel
her to be anybody at Ingleby; but, among the Palmers, she would be now a
person of consequence, and her mother told Guy that she was sorry to
break up their comfortable arrangements, but Jeanie had business to
attend to, and must go to old Mr Matthew Palmer's, near Rilston, he
being her trustee.
"I am very sorry you must go, Cousin Susan," said Guy, with perfect
truth.
And yet it did not seem to the two ladies that their presence in the
house could have made much difference to him. Every hour that his
strength held out he spent on his work, and when he was driven to what
he called resting, he often shut himself up in the study, and what he
did there, they knew not. He had what Mrs Palmer called,
"uncomfortable ways." They felt him to be an uncomfortable person. His
colourless face and preoccupied eyes--eyes that seemed always watchful,
but that watched for something out of other people's ken, like a wild
creature's, who scents or hears some far-off foe--were too odd to be
pleasant.
In the mill, however, he proved himself born to rule. In spite of his
youth and his bad health, he made himself felt in every corner of it,
and won allegiance, if not affection. It was not his way to be
irritable, but he was always grave; often stern and sarcastic,
determined and dictatorial as ever old Margaret had been in the hey-day
of her strength. When he stood leaning against the doorway of the long
rooms, breathless with climbing the stairs, there was not a worker who
did not wish to avoid his criticism; while the old managers gave in to
his daring new departures, and never doubted that he could sail the
ship.
His chief comfort was the entire and unexpected devotion of old John
Cooper. He obeyed Guy loyally, but he also watched over him like a
father. He had a careful old wife, who sent him in cups of tea, and
provided him with luncheons, and this care he contrived should be
extended to the young man too. He worked hard, so as to save him
exertion, and never resented the quick, sharp orders, or the short,
absent manner, and Guy was grateful--more grateful than he knew how to
show. The old manager's devotion helped him very much. There was
Rawdie, also, whom he had begged of Godfrey, who slept on his bed and
nestled at his side, and was a living presence, and a loving one too.
If the demands of the business upon him saved his wits, it strained them
to the utmost. It was touch and go with Palmer Brothers, all through
the winter, and if Guy had not been as clever as he was desperate, they
must have gone under. It was just a case of holding on. If that had
been all, he could hardly have borne it. But such anxiety was swept out
of his mind by the other thoughts that thronged upon him. He could not
sleep, so he read half the night--medicine and science, metaphysics and
religion, magic and mysticism, demonology and witchcraft, theories of
heredity and legends of possession, psychical researches and spiritual
revelations. And then it struck him that the Bible might throw some
light on the subject. He had learned "divinity," and frequently heard
and occasionally read the lessons, like other well-brought-up young men;
but he had never read it with any personal object. He came to the
conclusion that Saint Paul knew something about the matter. "Resisting
unto death--striving against sin," exactly expressed it. And sometimes
the foe pressed hard and home--and then there were perilous moments for
reason's sway. Guy looked the haunting terror in the face. He took its
likeness--"wrote it down," as he had said--spoke to it--defied it--well,
those were times better forgotten, and when Rawdie hung on to his
trousers and pulled him back, he knew that he was making a mad rush at--
nothing at all. But more and more the conviction strengthened, that
whatever personal influences shaped the forms of his experience, behind
it lay a "power outside himself that made for" _evil_, a power at one
with all the evil of the world. Where, then, was the power that makes
for good?
He sat alone one evening by the study fire, and asked this question in
vain. Could he hold on any longer? He was so lonely, and the weather
was so cold, it took away all his little strength. Godfrey was not
coming home for Christmas. Nerves and brain would endure no longer the
solitude--that was _not_ solitude. He put his hand over his eyes.
"If Rawdie had not been there last night." But Rawdie had been there--
there always was something. As to the mill, there were flashes of
certainty as to the right course, and a word or a kindly deed of old
Cooper's just gave strength to put them in practice. The sun struggled
through the fog yesterday, and raised his spirits; the day before there
was a letter from Cuthbert. Sometimes he dreamed of Florella, or the
sense that she was "helping" pressed warm upon his soul. And now there
was the connected thought of all these rescuing facts. But the source
from which they came was veiled. He could not "feel" good as he "felt"
evil. He could not trust himself to think of the gun in the
gun-cupboard at the side of the bookcase, of the doctor's medicine, of
which too large a dose would be so easy--of the brandy in the cellar--
which would drown all this agony or give strength to defy it. These
images of escape pressed on him like living souls. Either would be so
easy. Pray? Yes, but in such moments, before the prayer is offered,
the victory must be won. The will of steel that had endured so much was
breaking now. Guy got up and thought that he would look at that gun,
which had been unused all the autumn. The drops were upstairs, and the
brandy was in the cellar; but the gun was in the very room. He went
over to the cupboard; but he was dizzy, and his hand shook a little; the
key did not turn very easily. He fumbled with it. If he shot himself,
what would happen to his double? Why--_that_ would be gone out of the
world with himself--and the world would go on without him. Would
Florella ever learn to paint blue harebells in the sun? The dancing
flowers shone and smiled before his mental vision. The key turned in
his hand; but he turned it back again.
"I can bear it--another day," he thought, as he leaned against the
bookcase, with his hand still on the key.
Suddenly Rawdie burst into loud barking; the door bell pealed through
the empty house. Guy started away from the cupboard, the room door
opened, and a telegram was brought in.
"_Don't like your last note. Coming to you for Christmas; arrive 9:30.
Staunton_."
When the door was shut again, Guy flung the key of the gun-cupboard into
the fire, and fell down on his knees and gave thanks. Assuredly it was
not himself that had saved him.
When Cuthbert came, after a long day of travel from the far west, he
found supper ready, lights bright and fire warm, and Guy with a welcome
that was beyond words, quiet and even cheerful, but so white and worn,
that his friend rejoiced in the sudden impulse that had induced him to
brave his sisters' wrath, and give up Christmas at home to come to him.
"Why are you alone," he said. "Where is Godfrey?"
"Godfrey went off to the Rabys. He has got off the track altogether
somehow; his degree, you know, was a disappointment--and--well, he'll
have to come back soon and face matters out. Never mind! The mill
hasn't yet put up the shutters, and I'm still here, you see, spite of
the devil and all his angels, to say nothing of the frost, which I think
is going to kill me, and save farther trouble. No; but I'm rather bad,
old fellow, and you've just come in time to take care of me, for I can't
take care of myself a day longer. I get such bad nights, and I want you
to read me to sleep, I'm so tired."
Guy gave himself up to the comfort of his friend's presence, with a
grateful sense of his need of it. His boyish pride was gone. He told
Cuthbert very little; but his silence was the reticence of one who knew
that surface words were of no avail, and that no one's opinion made any
difference to his own judgment. He had regained the mastery of his
nerves; but his strength had been over-taxed, and he could but just
manage the most necessary business, till, when on Christmas Day itself,
snow fell heavily and the frost intensified, the cold tried him so much
that nothing but lying still by the fire was possible to him.
A belated postman struggled through the snow, with a bundle of letters,
of which a whole sheaf of loving home greetings fell to Cuthbert's
share; but to the lonely Guy, only a very smart Christmas card from
Cousin Susan.
His home had never been a very tender one; but still, such as it was, he
had lost it since last year. He felt hurt at his brother's silence, and
his heart failed him utterly. Why struggle to keep hold of so hard a
life? He turned his face towards the wall.
"Here's something for you," said Cuthbert, as he opened his last letter.
"Violet says, `Florella Vyner asked me to send you this little drawing
for Mr Waynflete. She says he saw her failures in drawing harebells,
last summer, and she hopes these will not look quite so bad, as it is
winter now.' She--hum--ha--well--Here's the drawing," said Cuthbert,
breaking off as he read aloud.
Guy turned round with a start, and taking the envelope, opened it.
There, blue against the blue of heaven, was the little bunch of
harebells, dim and cold doubtless, as compared to the originals in sun
and light, but "living blue" still, fair enough to tell of springing
thoughts and hopes and loves, in the dead cold of the winter snow.
A warm flush came over Guy's face. How much the high consolations
within him were reinforced by this little bit of human joy! Hope and
courage came back, and life was worth living again. Cuthbert watched
him this time with full comprehension.
"Ah," he thought. "So--is that to be the cure?"
Violet had remarked that Florella was apparently too shy to send the
card herself.
"But, it's no use pretending, she always manages to hear what we know
about him. Don't you tell him I said so."
Cuthbert said nothing, for nothing was needed. A new vision had opened
itself before Guy's spirit. Was the strange comprehension between
himself and Florella to bloom out into so lovely a flower?
"I owe her all," he thought. "She set me fighting. I knew she was a
saint and an angel. And I love her."
He took up his arms again with renewed courage. Before he won Florella,
he must be free. She was not only a helping angel, she was his heart's
love, and he must be strong enough to take care of her.
He gazed long at the little picture, then folded it away, and getting up
from the sofa, went over to the old piano, unused for many weeks, and
began to play the old North-country Christmas hymn, familiar to his
earliest childhood, "Christians awake."
"I can't sing now," he said; but he hummed the words softly, and sang a
line or two at intervals--
"Peace upon earth, and unto men good will."
"We'll have a little Christmas," he said, with a smile.