And Guy did not die. At first he lay in a state of collapse, hardly
kept alive from hour to hour, silent, motionless, and apparently
unconscious of all around him; but gradually there was some slight
improvement, now and then a response by word or look, more power of
taking food, and a stronger pulse.
At last, about a week after the accident, on a calm sunny day, when
Cuthbert was with him alone, he lay with open eyes, watching the window.
"Cuthbert!" he said suddenly.
"Yes," said Cuthbert, quietly. "What is it? Want something?"
"Help me up, please. I want to look out of the window."
They were the old imperative tones, and Cuthbert cautiously put his arm
round him, and raised him a little. Guy looked out at the sunny garden,
at the wooded hills, all round the room, and then up into Cuthbert's
face.
"Yes!" he said, "I thought so. The spectre's _gone_."
"That's a good thing," said Cuthbert; "but now you must be very still
and quiet. Lie back again. You're much better."
"How's Jem?" said Guy, after a minute.
"Well, he had a chill, you know; but he's safe at home with his mother."
"Oh," said Guy, with a long breath, "the room looks so nice and natural!
I've been looking at it for hours!" Then, "Don't have that bridge
mended. It must be in a new place."
"You recollect all about its being broken?" said Cuthbert.
"Oh yes; I recollect everything. But I had to rest. I've _really_
rested."
"Go on resting," said Cuthbert, quietly.
But Guy was always a surprising person. He came back to life with a
suddenness and a vigour that, as the doctor said, showed "almost
abnormal rallying power." He was not allowed to move for fear of the
least strain on his heart; but he was awake to everything, and soon made
Godfrey lift him on to a sofa by the window, "to look at the world;" and
his delight in so looking showed how the world had been recently spoiled
for him. He was soon downstairs, in the garden, out for a drive; every
step in recovery was achieved before any one thought he was ready for
it, and each new enterprise seemed more enjoyable to him than the last.
The tension which had held the whole household on the stretch, relaxed.
Preparations for the ceremony on Michaelmas Day were pushed forward with
cheerful alacrity, and Guy took his own presence at it as a matter of
course.
The wreck of the broken bridge was cleared away, and orders were given
for a new one to be built of rough stone, nearer to the Dragon; while a
different turn was to be given to the footpath.
"It was," said Guy, "more convenient."
Old Cooper, unable to endure his anxiety any longer, arrived one day in
the Rilston fly to satisfy himself as to Mr Guy's condition. He found
Guy able to welcome him warmly, to ask searching questions as to what
had been done during his illness, and to promise a speedy return to
Ingleby.
"That's well, Mr Guy," said the old man. "We've made a fair year's
work of it at the mill, and it would be a pity if ye were cut off just
as the business is looking up again."
"I've got to thank you for giving me a start in the right direction,"
said Guy, with meaning.
"Eh, sir," said Cooper; "ye've done more than your aunt expected of you,
and we'll all be glad to see you at work again. I'm glad to have seen
the place that the old lady set her heart on; but it's but a lonesome
situation. And you seem to have been far from fortunate in crossing yon
beck."
"Unlucky!" said Guy, as Godfrey went to show the old manager out, and
left him alone with Staunton. "I can but wonder at my great good
fortune. I was so sure that I was going to my death, that my life was
the price I had to pay, that I can't believe that I shall live; that
I've come off scot-free for a ducking--so far."
"Why, my dear boy, it was touch and go," said Cuthbert.
"Ay. It was so queer to feel no contact myself with the terror, and to
see poor Jem in the throes of the struggle. And he put me back, and
went to face him first." Here Guy faltered, and almost broke down. "He
won the battle. But then, on the bridge--you'll say I was faint, and
felt the dead weight of Jem--there was nothing; but, well--_people talk
of the powers of the air_. I could not stir--an inch. Then Jem yelled
out, and I got loose, and the bridge cracked--no wonder!--I woke up here
by degrees. I knew when you came and held my hand, and when Rawdie
licked my face; but I couldn't do a thing. I had to _stop_. And now to
be alive--and alone!"
"Thank God, my boy, it's all over."
"Yes, I thank God," said Guy. Then he added, quietly, "It doesn't
matter how much of it has been what you call natural, or what caused the
horror that poor Jem burlesqued. I had _to fight_. It's true enough--
all temptations are common to man. I might have been as he is. Now,
Cuthbert, let the rest be silence. I shall never speak of these things
again. Believe me, they _are_ all over. But, a thousand times I thank
you."
He looked up, and Cuthbert saw the conflict and the victory, both in his
face.
The shadow, if shadow it could be called, was the fading out of life of
poor Jem Outhwaite. Less ill at first than Guy, he had no vitality to
resist the shock and chill he had received. He had one word more to say
about the crossing of the bridge, when his poor feeble soul had put
forth its one flower of courage, and he had tried to take the post of
danger.
"Ay, sir," he said, in his cracked voice, to all the vicar's words of
comfort and hope.
But, when Guy came at the very last to see him, he looked up in his face
with a smile that was not foolish, and said--
"We thrawed t' owd gen'leman in to t' watter, _not he we_."
His mother said that now her poor lad was safe, she could lie in her
grave; but she never could have left him behind her. He was laid in the
new churchyard, next to the grave of the old squire; and both, all
barriers thrown down, awaited the consecrating words that would join
their resting-places to those of their kindred and neighbours who rested
in peace. Guy and Godfrey stood together at the head of his grave.
Godfrey, through all the time of suspense, had fallen into the way of
bringing all his hopes and fears to Constancy. She had hunted him out
to take exercise, just as she trotted Rawdie, who had been a devoted
nurse to his master, daily round the garden, and sacrificed the peace of
the stable-cat's life, that he might have the refreshment of chasing her
up a tree. Now, after the funeral, as Guy lingered to look at the
progress made in the church restoration since he had last seen it,
Godfrey went back and found her, as he hoped, taking Rawdie for a walk
on the lawn.
It did not seem unusual when he began--"I've got something to ask you.
Don't you see how this place is like a part of Guy? Can't you tell me
how to make him see that that mere mistake must be undone? It _is_ his.
If he would but call it so. It is never out of his thoughts."
"I think," said Constancy, looking straight before her, "that it ought
to be his. And I think you have done all you can to make up to him.
And I think you are quite right to want to make up, and to care about
it. And, I am ashamed of having said I did not think so. I was horrid
and narrow and small. I always have been, ever since I played ghost for
fun. I'm a `finished and finite clod, untroubled by a spark.' That's
all."
"Oh, Constancy," cried Godfrey, unheeding, if recognising, this apt
quotation. "You know that I've been a brute to Guy, and an ass about
myself. Thank Heaven, Jeanie threw me over; she'll be married next
month. I'm a mere duffer compared to you; but I love you with all my
heart and soul, and if you would--"
"Stop," she said, with a kind of dignity; "you mustn't _make_ me."
She stood still, her face turned away. Once, when she had been asked
what she would do with her life, she had answered, "Why, _live_ it, of
course." Would the life now offered her be really her own? The simple
yielding of the ideal maiden, to whom the lover comes as a great god,
with all the gifts of life in his hand, is not for such as she. She
knew very well now, that it was "a big situation."
"Yes" was not easy to speak; but "No" was impossible.
She turned towards him, pale, and with trembling lips.
"I never thought I would," she said; "but--but you've been so _much_
better than I have--all through--if you can't be satisfied without me--
we'd better try it--some day."
Rawdie was found, soon afterwards, sitting by himself in another part of
the garden. He had retired with discretion.
"And now, Guy," said Godfrey, by-and-by, when his tale was told, and
Guy, after more sympathetic congratulations, had dryly remarked that it
was fortunate that Mr Van Brunt's character and credit had proved above
suspicion, "I want you to listen.
"You know well enough which of us has carried on Aunt Waynflete's
purpose. You know what she really meant, and that this wretched will
was a mere mistake. But for you, the business would have gone to the
dogs, and this place to the hammer, or, perhaps, to the devil; for,
remember, I'm your own flesh and blood, and I know what this last year
has been as well as you. And I can be just as determined. I took an
oath, and I'll not break it. And, look here, that's as much an inward
prompting of my soul as ever you knew in yours. It's my share of the
work. Now, for once, you must give in."
"Yes, I will, Godfrey," said Guy, "I'll give in. And, my boy, I
wouldn't give the stoniest field in Waynflete for the finest estate in
England; and I took it hard I hadn't got it. I loved it from the first
moment I saw it, and now--"
For once Guy faltered, and could not finish, but by a great squeeze of
Godfrey's hand, though the next minute he said--
"Mind, we'll have to consider how to do it in a proper and legal manner.
We'll keep it quiet till that's done."
"All right," said Godfrey. "Aunt Waynflete would be satisfied now."
It was Michaelmas Eve, a lovely still day, without a leaf stirring.
Florella was gathering Michaelmas daisies. Nobody thought much about
her in these exciting days, and she did the odds and ends, and filled up
the holes and corners. Suddenly a shadow fell on her flowers, and Guy's
voice said--
"I want you to come with me to look at the picture."
"I'll come," she said, and they went slowly upstairs, and along the
passage to the little octagon-room, flooded with autumn sunlight, and
stood together in front of the picture.
"How could I think it was like you?" she said.
Guy smiled.
"You know," he said. "I think you know all. I owe you my very soul,
and for that which you have done, no words are holy enough."
"It was not I!" she murmured.
"It was _with_ you, and _through_ you. God knows I could not have done
without one help that came to me, Cuthbert Staunton--the hard work at
the mill--even poor old Rawdie--I have been helped so much! And now,
Florella, my body as well as my soul is free. I think that I shall
never be a slave again. If my health holds out, if I can do man's work
in the world yet--when I have tested myself--will you let me come to you
by-and-by? And, oh, Florella, my angel, my darling, will you be afraid
to share my life then? Is it only pity you have for me? or is it--Can
you love me, as well as help me?"
"A great deal _more_" said Florella, with half a sob. She stood for a
moment, facing him with shining eyes. "I want you to take all myself--
all there is of me," she said, with a ring in her voice. "If--if _that_
should come again to you, it shall get through _my_ soul first."
She hid her face on his breast; he held her in his arms, and, in the
transfiguring sunlight, the sad eyes of the picture above their heads
seemed at last to smile.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
When there is a Prologue to a story, it should have an Epilogue as well.
Should this take the sound of wedding-bells, when Flete Dale smiled in
the sunlight, when the murky woods were cut away, and the dreary noise
of the restless horseman was heard no more, when friends filled the old
house with rejoicing, and the good days of Waynflete were come?
That would bring the story to a happy pause. But surely the true end of
Guy Waynflete's story, of the battle which every soul that is born into
the world must fight, but which he waged under such strange conditions,
is not here, but in that unseen world, where the souls of the old
Waynfletes had gone before him, where the real issues of the battle are
decided, where the real story began.
There only, where the souls of the wicked, as well as of the righteous,
are in the hand of God, can be gathered the fruits of Guy's victory.
The Epilogue of the story of Waynflete, as of all other stories, is
elsewhere--is out of sight.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The End.