One sunny afternoon towards the end of August, Florella was sitting on
the wall of old Peggy Outhwaite's garden, sketching a tuft of house-leek
that adorned the roof of the ancient and ill-kept cottage. This little
homestead, which was Peggy's own, and had belonged to her fathers before
her, was tucked into a corner of the wood above the Flete, through which
the footpath led up to the Hall; the cottage was reached from that side
by a little side-track.
The like of Florella had never come into Peggy's life before, and she
took to this new kind of creature very kindly, finding her a most
attentive listener to Waynflete traditions.
Whether in old Peggy, inglorious, though not mute, there rested the soul
of a romance writer, or whether, as she herself averred, the Outhwaites
knew a deal, she told "Miss Flowra," as she called Florella, more about
"t' owd Guy" than any one had ever heard before. She was a true
reciter; and while Florella sketched, she would stand before her, and
describe the passage of the Flete on that awful night when Waynflete was
lost, as if she herself had been standing by. She told her the original
legend of the traitor who had betrayed his friend's life, and therefore
had "walked" ever since. She mentioned his appearances, and talked
about him with a kind of grotesque familiarity as if "t' owd gen'leman"
had been in the habit of taking constitutionals about the valley. But
now and then her tone deepened.
"Eh, my dear," she said, "ye mun look on't aright. A poor lost soul
does na' coom back to tempt, but to warn--to warn us fra' sin, Missy.
He's boun' to coom, though happen the devil drives 'un. But 'tisna a'
can see. T' owd Guy may walk oop till most on us, and we be noon wiser.
There's my Jem, puir lad, sees 'un, he do, and Mr Guy, he knaws 'un
well."
"Did he ever tell you so?" said Florella.
"Eh, d'ye think I need tellin'? Eh, there a be. Good day to ye, sir."
Florella's palette fell out of her hand before this friendly greeting
revealed to her that it was not the old, but the young Guy, who stood at
the garden gate.
He had not been at Waynflete since his return, and now came forward with
outstretched hand, while Jem appeared behind him like his shadow.
"Godfrey has been away," he said, "and I couldn't get over before. I
have come to the Vicarage for a week. There are a good many
arrangements to make, and I want to ask Mrs John Palmer a favour. I
should like--it's an odd fancy--but I should like old Miss Maxwell, the
Stauntons' cousin, to come to the church opening. You saw her, I think.
I know Mrs Palmer is going kindly to do the entertaining."
"Oh yes," said Florella. "I had thought of her. But she'd like you to
ask her yourself."
"So I know," he said; "I shall ride over. Staunton says he won't come
in the character of an hereditary foe; but I shall get him somehow."
"We asked Violet," said Florella, "and she says that ancestors are such
a novelty that she is delighted to have even a villain."
Guy and Florella had a laugh in common as he turned and spoke to Peggy,
and she gathered up her sketching things.
"Eh," said the old woman, as they went out at the gate together, "t' owd
Guy winna mak' an end yet o' Waynfletes!"
When old Miss Maxwell, picking York and Lancaster roses in her little
garden, looked down the bleak grey street of Ouselwell, and beheld a
stranger riding up, she felt, as she said afterwards, a presentiment of
something unusual, which, as strange and striking young men were not
common in Ouselwell, was perhaps not surprising. But it was fulfilled
when the stranger left his horse at the inn, and walking up to her gate,
bowed politely, and introduced himself as Guy Waynflete, a friend of her
cousin, Mr Cuthbert Staunton.
Miss Maxwell made him a formal bow and led him into her little
drawing-room, and the little old maid and the tall young man sat down
opposite to each other, and Guy said quite simply--
"Miss Maxwell, we have been restoring Waynflete Church. It is to be
opened on Michaelmas Day, and my brother and I wish very much that you
should be with us on the occasion. We have to thank you for the family
papers which you allowed us to have."
"You do me a great honour, Mr Waynflete," said the old lady, formally.
"It is long since I was so far from home; but I should, I assure you, be
glad to share in the rejoicing. Although the relations between our
families were not as happy as could be wished, yet somehow, sir, any
connection so long ago creates an interest."
"Yes," said Guy; "that is just my feeling."
Then she gave Guy bread and salt in the shape of tea and hot cakes, and
lapsed into more friendly chat, shaking hands tenderly with him when he
took leave, and the interview, a somewhat quaint one for the end of the
nineteenth century, concluded.
"A most distinguished young man," as she wrote to Kitty Staunton; "but I
fear he has the look of a doom upon him."
"Which only means that he looks delicate," said Constancy, when this
cheerful sentence found its way to Waynflete.
For Constancy was there, having finished her trip, and having assured
herself that Godfrey was pretty well tied to Ingleby. The world was
going well. The old incapable tenant of Upper Flete, the only farm on
the estate of any value, died, and was succeeded by a nephew, with more
education and capital, who came to terms with Godfrey as to needful
improvements, and rented some more land. A purchaser was found for the
copse-wood, which had not been cut for many years, who bought it
standing, and undertook all the expenses of cutting and carriage. A
great change would therefore soon be seen in the whole aspect of the
valley, and, as for the house, Mrs John Palmer's fancy for it
continued, and she thought of taking it, as she could well afford to do,
for a summer residence; in which case, she would, no doubt, prove a good
friend to the village.
Godfrey came forward and made all the arrangements without any apparent
reluctance; but a queer little smile, not unlike his brother's, came
over his face when he was questioned by the neighbouring squires on his
views on preserving or politics, and he would not commit himself as to
the future.
All this was satisfactory to Guy, and so, in another way, was his
"reconciliation" with the last of the Maxwells of Ouseley. Matters
seemed to be drawing towards a point of success, of which the coming
gathering was a kind of symbol. As he was returning from a ride in the
broad, spreading sunlight of an August afternoon, he thought of all that
the past year had brought to him. It was but a year since he had shown
Florella the picture in the octagon-room, and her words had roused him
to make a fight for his freedom. Till she touched his spirit, he had
been tossed and driven in helpless and hopeless bondage to fear, his one
notion of fortitude, concealment, his one refuge, a remedy worse than
the disease. That danger he recognised with critical self-knowledge,
had, in his case, been born of fear, and was itself something of a
spectre of his fancy. Apart from maddening terror, he would never "take
to drink." And, after this year of stern and steady conflict, it did
not seem to him that any bewilderment of the senses could ever again
terrify him beyond the power of self-control. While, as for that inward
sense of possession, that presence, which for him lay behind all else,
if that should spring into consciousness again, after its long sleep, he
was prepared to face it. There was another force, deeper and stronger
still, which, in dim and awful glory, had made itself felt within him.
Guy believed that his soul was saved. There are no other words for it,
though these may convey a hundred other meanings. But there was "more
to come." Whether this conviction was well-founded, or whether, as
Cuthbert would have told him, it sprang from the depression of exhausted
nerves and spirits; from the melancholy too often associated with trials
such as his, it equally proved that he was not free as other men were
for the sweetness of life and love.
As other men? Were other men free? "The drink" might have been a
bugbear to him, but it was an awful fact to thousands of those others.
How many devils had possessed his rough ancestors, whose clutch had not
closed on him, because the one great gain of old Margaret's courage had
been that he and his brother began life on a higher level? How did this
poor Jem Outhwaite, who burlesqued and caricatured his own grim
experiences, come to be what he was? As this thought occurred to him,
Jem himself started out of a gateway beside him, and, after a grin and
nod of greeting, picked up Rawdie, and carried him over a muddy piece of
ground, through which he himself humbly shambled beside Guy's horse.
The royal favourite should not needlessly wet his feet.
Jem was a conversational person, and fired off short remarks at
intervals.
"Owd Cowperthwaite says Waynfletes'll tak' t' bread out o's mouth."
"Old Cowperthwaite's a scoundrel," said Guy.
"Ay, sir," said Jem, cheerfully. Then, after a pause, "I see twa
rabbits over Flete Edge. Mr Godfrey can shoot 'em."
"Ay, I dare say he will."
"I see t' owd gen'leman by t' brig on Friday," said Jem, in the same
contented treble.
"Nay, Jem, I don't think you did," said Guy, didactically.
"I see Miss Flowra," said Jem, in the same tone of cheerful
indifference.
Guy sprang from his horse, and Jem, setting Rawdie delicately down on a
bit of turf, grinned, nodded, shambled away across a field towards the
river, and was out of sight in a minute.
"Oh," said Florella, as she came up, "I hope Jem will go straight home,
he has been about all day. Old Peggy is really ill. She got a chill
the other day waiting for him at the bridge in the rain. You know he
stops at the Dragon, and the doctor says he must be found quick, or it
may go hard with her."
"I know," said Guy, briefly. "I'll just go and put my horse up, and
then go and fetch him. He'll come with me. He was here this minute."
"You know," said Florella, in a half-whisper, "that he says t' owd Guy
stops him."
"I know," said Guy. "But don't listen to stories about him. _You_
mustn't get to fancy the place is haunted."
"I am not afraid," she said, and there was a touch of reproach in her
voice. Guy paused a moment, then spoke in another tone.
"I think I have been wrong," he said. "I wanted you to forget what you
had done for me, for fear the least influence from which you have saved
me should breathe on your spirit. But you ought to know that you have
saved me. You _have_ led me to that saving Presence of which you spoke.
Whatever may come, whatever it may cost, yet the snare is broken, and I
_am_ delivered."
She looked at him without a word.
He went on in the same steady, controlled tones. "Now you see there's
another. Will you help that poor lad through the next hour, I think
he'll be hard pressed? Good-bye, he shall come to his mother. He
shan't be _too late_." He took her hands, and bent as if to kiss them.
A little sob broke from her, and in a moment the kiss was on her lips.
He was gone before the blood had time to burn up in her cheek, and she
broke into a passion of tears, while formless and awful, all the terror
that he might be going to meet, rushed over her spirit. She felt
helpless, powerless, certain of evil. Her soul was full of mist and
cloud. All she could do was, like a child, to follow his behest, and
pray for Jem.
Guy, thrilled with a new and high excitement, put up his horse, and with
Rawdie still at his heels, pursued his way towards the Dragon, intending
to call Jem away from its enticing attractions, and to escort him over
the old footbridge back to his mother. A simple thing to do, but he had
only crossed that bridge once before.
The hot bright sunlight had thickened into a thundery mist, and the
light rapidly faded. Guy was not tired now, he walked easily enough,
nor did any perplexing thoughts beset him. He saw--no more than usual.
He felt no inward horror. But upon his rapturous mood there fell as
strong a conviction that he was going to dare his fate as if he had gone
to pick up a bomb of dynamite. He felt as if the very air was a
resisting force as he pushed on through it. He went on, and a deep
sadness came upon him, and all in a moment, as he came to the top of the
hollow, he knew that it was the expectation of death. He stopped and
looked down into the mist. He could not see across the valley, and he
could not see across that expectation. He could not think of any
definite danger. He stood still with his eyes on the ground; upon the
mist the spectral shape that went before him, showed out sharp and
clear. Words came into his mind. "Fear not him that can kill the
body." But "_the body_" meant life and work, and love and joy. It
meant Florella. Perhaps his body was the price that had to be paid for
his soul. And when the end was past? What did death mean? When the
spirit was free from the flesh, would the spiritual foes be gone? Or
would the last veil be withdrawn from their terrible faces? What would
await him in the world where the other Guy had gone before?
Guy went on down the hill till into the misty air gleamed the paraffin
lamps of the Dragon public, and into his misty thoughts came the need of
sharp and prompt action.
He stepped inside the door, and called out, "Is Jem Outhwaite here? I
want him."
Two or three men were standing about, in the bar. They looked at Guy,
and fell back before him with surprising readiness.
"Here a be, sir," said one, pushing Jem's reluctant figure forward, as
he tried to slink behind them.
"Come Jem," said Guy; "your mother's bad, and I'm going to take you back
to her across the bridge. Come along with me."
He laid his hand on Jem's arm, and with a short "Good evening," pulled
him out of the cheerful circle, into the foggy dusk. Jem, who followed
him usually like a dog, now hung back, and dragged against his hold,
trembling and reluctant; not drunk, he thought, but manifestly dazed
with fear. He was tall and big, and perhaps it was the dead weight of
his resistance that made Guy feel as if the very mist oppressed him, and
forced him back. Against himself, against his poor companion, against
uncomprehended forces he struggled on.
"Sithee, there a be. We canna get by. He'll get me!" gasped Jem, as he
struggled.
"Jem," said Guy, "I have got past him, though I was just as much afraid
as you. And I am not going to let him stop you. He can't do it, Jem.
Say your prayers your mother taught you, and come on. He can't stop
you."
"Eh, but he can--but he can! He's a coomin'; he's a gripped me!" gasped
Jem, flinging his arms round Guy, and dragging him back, then shrinking
behind him.
"No, he hasn't, Jem," said Guy, in clear, firm tones. "I'm going first
over the bridge; so if he gets either of us, he'll have me. You come
after, like a man, and God have mercy on us both!"
Guy pushed forward. Surely the poor fellow would follow now! But again
Jem held him back.
"Naw, sir," said the poor half-wit, in his cracking treble, "I'll gang
ower first, and yo' coom arter," and with a quick, unsteady run, he
shambled on to the bridge.