Godfrey's brief glimpse of Constancy had sent his "forgetfulness" to the
winds. He had written a very proper letter to Jeanie's trustee uncle,
telling him, in confidence, the exact state of the Ingleby affairs,
owning that he had made advances which just now were difficult to follow
up, but by which he should consider himself bound in future. And he
further made it quite plain that he considered himself only master of
Waynflete Hall _de facto_, and not _de jure_. The answer was also a
very carefully considered composition, and was more encouraging than it
probably would have been, if Guy's health had been considered less
precarious. A year was skilfully indicated as the time that it might
take Godfrey to "see his way." Of course there was to be no engagement;
still, at the end of a year, if not before, they would like to hear how
Mr Godfrey was getting on.
"It'll take a deal of bad management to upset Palmer Brothers," said old
Mr Matthew; "and like enough it'll all come to Godfrey."
By this arrangement Godfrey had to abide. He had tied a clog round his
neck, and it was heavy to carry. He set himself with dogged resolution
to master the details of business, and in the long evenings the two
brothers looked over their aunt's letters and papers, together with the
relics handed over to the Stauntons by old Miss Maxwell, and which
Cuthbert had given to Guy.
Godfrey, who had been at first reluctant, grew more and more interested
in what he found, and Guy abstained entirely from comment on any of the
facts brought to light, though these explained many things to him. He
saw that his aunt had had good reason for her anger and alarm, when she
had seen the brandy-bottle in his cupboard, for there were bitter
letters of reproach and warning, the sort of letters that start up
indeed like spectres from the other side of the grave, and in one,
addressed to his father, there was an indication that his own enemy had
been at work, for it consisted of a sharp and angry rebuke to the
unsatisfactory nephew for "excusing his own faults by untruths and
fancies like others before him." Margaret's own letter had evidently
come back into her hands, but the corresponding one had been destroyed.
They found a few little relics of their mother and grandmother, who had
belonged to the same family, small North-country gentry. They had been
almost the last of their race, and there were no near cousins left. The
lads had to make the most of a few bits of needlework, a stiff little
note or two, and a photograph of their mother, of so much weaker a type
that it had left but little impress on their strong Waynflete features.
There were old likenesses, too, of father and grandfather, at which Guy
looked earnestly, and then cast a stealthy glance across the room.
"The same old face," he said, under his breath; while the hand that held
the photograph shook a little.
They also pieced out the family history during its period of eclipse,
realising with something of a shock, at least to Godfrey, how entirely
it had sunk to the working-farmer level. They learned to know "the rock
from which they were hewn," and their sense of their old great-aunt's
energy and courage increased accordingly. Godfrey had escaped these
more degrading temptations, and Guy, perhaps, was _quitte pour la peur_.
Godfrey went over to Waynflete, more willingly after these discoveries,
to see what could be done for it, but came back late in the evening in
very low spirits.
He hated the place, he said; the vicar had walked him about, and so had
the bailiff. The church was tumbling down, and the farms were just
worthless.
"I never saw such a God-forsaken hole," he said. "I declare, as I came
over that rickety old bridge, through that crooked old plantation, and
those miserable weedy fields, pasture that wouldn't feed a donkey, and
beastly old hay so rotten that nobody had ever thought it worth leading,
I--I wished Aunt Waynflete had let it alone. I never noticed it much in
the summer. I didn't notice anything much then, and I suppose it's
pretty; but it took all the heart out of me."
"I dare say it did," said Guy.
"I believe there's a fate against it's coming to good."
"What if there is?" said Guy, sharply.
"Where should we be if Aunt Margaret had stopped to think about fate?"
Godfrey leant over the fire with his elbows on his knees.
"I don't see that she did get the better of fate, after all.
Waynflete's a beastly hole, and there's no money to keep it up, and it's
touch and go with the business, and you have half killed yourself."
"But not quite," said Guy. "Now, look here, it's disgraceful to own a
place in this condition, and it's got to be pulled round, spite of fate
or fiend either. Of course the work is not done, when the place is a
sink of iniquity, and the property gone to destruction. We've got to
finish it. Come, cheer up; get some supper. I've got a notion. We'll
get Clifton to come here, to dine and sleep, and talk matters over.
Don't you play devil's advocate. He doesn't want one."
Godfrey looked up, half-scared, half-fascinated, into his brother's
face. There were times when he was more than half afraid of him.
Mr Clifton, a lively and energetic young man, full of plans and
schemes, for which he found Waynflete hardly ripe, came over as invited,
and soon suggested starting a subscription for the repairs of the
church.
"The curious old Norman architecture makes it a county concern," he
said, "and Mrs Waynflete's memory is so much respected that I am sure
people would like to show it by helping us."
"Yes," said Guy, "I expect Mrs John Palmer, our connection, who wishes
to take the house for the summer, would give us something."
Mr Clifton looked much cheered by the notion of a tenant in the shape
of a well-to-do lady.
"We might get a good deal done by Michaelmas," he said. "I find the
church is dedicated to Saint Michael."
"Is that so?" said Guy, as if struck.
"Yes; I've been looking up the records--and--I believe it's illegal; but
I found some such curious matters in the old registers, that, as they
concern your family, I ventured to bring them with me."
He produced two worm-eaten old volumes, in which he had placed various
marks.
It appeared that the last Waynflete parson had lived to extreme old age.
His death in 1810 was set down, and had been followed by three long
incumbencies of men of the illiterate and not over-reputable class, too
common formerly in the north of England.
"The last was more decent," said the vicar; "but he did nothing. The
roots of evil are old and deep. Now, here's a queer thing, noted
comparatively recently by the vicar before last, in 1864.
"Buried _John Outhwaite_. Stated on his death-bed that, when a lad, he
saw the ghost of one of the old Waynfletes, on Flete Bridge, on an
autumn night. Probably a trick played on him by a comrade."
"Is there any more?" said Guy, eagerly.
"The ghost of `t' owd Guy' is a tradition in the place," said the vicar;
"but there seems nothing recent at all authenticated."
Next he showed them the entry of the death of the last squire, and of
the luckless Guy, with _Died by His own Hand_, and _Died in Delirium_,
written in crabbed, ill-spelt characters by the parson-brother, and
then--
"It is not to be credited that my Unlucky Nephew saw His Ancestor's
Spirit. That is the same Idle Tale as was told by Peter Outhwaite when
he came home from Rilston Market, and drowned his horse in the Flete.
Albeit, there is Waynflete blood in the Outhwaites, for my Grandfather
and his brother were Wild Youths. We be more Prudent now."
"Ha!" said Guy, drawing a long breath. "I could not understand how
these Outhwaites could see him. That soft lad is an Outhwaite, isn't
he? Is he the last of them?"
"Yes, except his old mother. She is a character, and very proud of her
family. Her contempt for me is considerable. But poor Jem is an
institution, and believes himself a pillar of the church. He is a good
fellow in his way."
"You spoke of enlarging the churchyard," said Guy, suddenly, "if we--if
my brother gave the ground. Couldn't the wall come down, and the last
squire's grave be included? He could be forgiven now, couldn't he?"
"Surely," said the vicar. "If the ground were given, it could be done
easily."
"Of course," said Godfrey, briefly. "What else ought we to do?"
Then the vicar unfolded his cherished scheme. The lease was just out of
the Dragon, "that rowdy little public in Flete Dale, a curse to the
place in every way, and the centre of mischief." If Mr Waynflete would
refuse to renew the lease--that was the place he should like for club,
coffee-tavern, everything; several rooms--one large--the lads,
unluckily, used to going there. "We should turn the devil's flank on
his own ground."
As the young clergyman expounded the details of the newest and most
up-to-date recipe for social, moral, and religious improvement, Guy
moved the hand with which--it was a trick he had--he was shading his
eyes, and looked him full in the face with such a gaze as brought him
suddenly to a dead stop, a look of awe, inspiration, and resolute daring
beyond description.
"That's right. That shall be done!" he said. "That _will_ turn the
devil's flank!"
Mr Clifton believed quite orthodoxly in the devil; but he had used his
name at the moment more or less metaphorically. He felt as he looked at
Guy, as he had never felt before, that "improving" his parish meant
literally dragging it away from the power of evil.
"The place won't answer in that depressing hole," said Godfrey. "It
gives one the shivers to think of it."
"It'll answer, if we're not afraid," said Guy.
It was not surprising, on any grounds, that he had a bad fit of
palpitation and faintness that night, after the long discussion was
over.
"I must lie still," he said in the morning; "but bring Clifton here
before he goes. I want to speak to him."
"I am afraid I over-tired you last night," said the vicar, penitently,
when he obeyed this summons.
Guy was lying back on his pillows, with the winter morning sun shining
through his unshaded window, full on his hair and face.
"Thanks--it couldn't possibly be helped," he said. "It doesn't matter.
You're quite right about the Dragon. Don't give the notion up. You
know we have neither of us much money, but we'll help. And you're right
about the subscription. Every one that lends a hand brings more force
to help."
"We must give a long pull and a strong pull and a pull all together,"
said the vicar, cheerily.
"Yes," said Guy, with a vivid smile. "Now I understand that. And when
we have won, you could paint in Michael above the Dragon, beating him
down under his feet."
"Surely, most appropriate in Saint Michael's parish. Oh, I felt very
much out of heart before; but you have greatly encouraged me, and I hope
and pray that we may make some way now."
"Pray?" said Guy. "Yes. That's a very hard thing to do; but it makes a
great difference."
And the young vicar, as he looked into Guy's eyes, felt for the first
time that he understood what was meant by "_wrestling_ in prayer." He
was so much impressed that he could make no sort of obvious and natural
answer. He was silent for a moment, and then said--
"You will tell me every idea that occurs to you? I shall be too
grateful. And--when you are strong enough--if the Hall is occupied, or
uninhabitable, do come to the Vicarage. I've made that weather-tight,
and--you could see everything for yourself."
"Thanks," said Guy; "I think I could do that--I will, sometime. And
Godfrey will be coming over about the repairs."
To Godfrey it was a distinct relief when Guy called him after the
visitor was gone, and dictated the letter to be written to the agent of
the Australian sheep-farmers, who supplied the mill with raw wool, and
who had not supplied it in the past, according to the samples offered.
Palmer Brothers did not intend to be cheated in the future.
Then Guy was left alone in the wintry sunshine to think over the past
night.
"The Enemy"--as he phrased it--had indeed come to him as before; but he
had not been afraid, for, in the same inward region of unspeakable
experience, he had felt for the first time, the presence of a Friend.