Part 2, Chapter I.
A Big Situation.
Florella Vyner lay awake in the cool misty light of a moorland morning, and thought, not for the first time, of her conversation with Guy Waynflete. She had the power of intense and steady contemplation, that was the faculty that enabled her to “see,” and when she woke to the sense of the unusualness of what had passed, she felt quite certain that the circumstances were also unusual enough to justify the words which she had spoken. They had surprised herself; and now, on the day when she would see Guy again she divined that he had been speaking of himself. It was he who suffered spiritual fear, he whose soul was in danger, and needed prayers to help it. A sense of awe came upon her. Guy believed that she saw; but she felt herself to have been hitherto blind. She had entered into a spiritual conflict, and, suddenly, she knew that it was a real one. “Pray for his soul.” What a tremendous thing she had promised! And oh! how tremendous must be the Power whom she had invoked.
There came upon Florella a moment when “this earth we hold by seemed not earth,” a moment when she did indeed “see.”
Her sister’s voice startled her.
“It’s not going to be a fine day. Never mind, wet mist is characteristic of Ingleby.” Constancy was sitting up in bed. Her abundant hair fell over her shoulders in thick vigorous waves, her hands were clasped round her knees.
“Cosy,” said Florella, with sisterly straightforwardness, “I hope you’re going to behave better than you did at Waynflete.”
“I haven’t done any harm,” said Cosy, with entire good humour. “Why should you all grumble? I haven’t read an hour the less, nor given up a discussion, nor got a bit tired of being here. But I won’t be only one sort of girl. People who have brains can manage a situation.”
“I should have thought their brains ought to tell them when a situation was too big for them to manage.”
“Really, Flo! You do say extremely clever things sometimes. Yes, so they ought. But this isn’t a big situation, though Godfrey Waynflete is a very big young man.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Florella, beginning to get up. “You’re simply flirting, and talking fine about it. But, I don’t think Godfrey Waynflete is flirting, and you may find that the situation grows.”
“Well! I’ll see if I can grow up to it,” said Constancy. “But you know, in these days a girl like me is much more likely to flirt too little than too much.”
Godfrey appeared at the carriage door as they drove up to the Mill House, full of hearty greetings, big, bright and boyish as ever, but with a certain glow in face and manner which was unmistakable as Constancy sprang out, and lifting Rawdie, kissed him between his eyes.
Guy stood behind, looking on with repressed amusement, for he had not yet perceived that it was a “big situation.” He acted host, and showman to the mill. He was pale, but so self-contained and like himself that Cuthbert could have thought the agitated confidence of the night before had been a dream. But Florella felt quite sure of her surmise regarding him, though he said no word to recall it to her.
Constancy had no intention but of spending another pleasant day in studying the “other side of life,” and in teasing her companions; but she did not know with whom she had to deal. If Godfrey had been either old enough to understand her, or timid enough to hesitate and lose his chance, she might have appeared to “manage the situation.” But he began the day with a definite purpose, and laid his plans to suit it. The wet weather was much against him, as he could not offer himself to her, either when walking round the mill, or when sitting in the drawing-room, with Cousin Susan acting hostess. He did not, however, mean to be baffled, and while the whole party were listening to Guy’s explanation of the looms, as well as the noise they made permitted, he said to her, with decision—
“I want you to come and see this,” and as she complied, he led her quickly out of the long, many-windowed room, where the hands were working, into another where the great bales of wool were stored ready for use.
The windows were wide open, with the wet air blowing through, there was a strong smell of oily wool; but Godfrey, with a soft, persistent step, led her round the piled-up bales, into a little open space between them. The window looked across miles of misty, smoky country, and the ceaseless roar of the machinery was softened by distance, so that they could hear themselves speak.
“I don’t see anything to look at here,” said Constancy, “and I want to understand how the weaving is done.”
“There is nothing to see,” said Godfrey. “I brought you here on purpose to tell you something. I—I love you. I mean to work with all there is of me to be worthy of you. I’ve only that one object in life, and I shall never have another. I—I’ve thought you liked me a little. You do—Constancy, don’t you? You will, won’t you? You know that I care for nothing else in the world but you.”
He came close to her, taking her hands and looking down at her, with eyes to which his eagerness lent a sort of fierce determination.
Constancy’s heart gave a great throb as the blood rushed to her face, but startled as she was, she held her own.
“Now you are spoiling everything that is so extremely pleasant. You know quite well I never thought of anything of that sort. We have had such a very good time. Now, don’t say any more. I never meant—”
“You must have meant it at Waynflete; you meant me to believe it.”
“Now, you are making a great deal too much of things. Why, you know, I have my work at college—”
“If you care a bit for me, what does that matter?”
Godfrey’s face darkened, and filled with passionate desire.
“You don’t care for me?” he said, hoarsely.
“Well, no,” she said, “not in that way. I’m not sentimental; and you—we—are much too young to think of such nonsense. Let us find the others.”
Godfrey stood in her path for a moment. He was smarting, not only under her refusal, but under her deliberate ignoring of his depth of feeling.
“I am young,” he said, “young enough to wait, and I will make you care. The love I offer you is worth a great deal more than you pretend to think. I’ll—I’ll make you see that yet. Allow me—to show you the way back to the others.”
He stood aside and pointed the way, forcing his manner into rigid politeness, but his face white, and his eyes fixing hers. His whole nature rose against defeat, though, as he fell behind her, he felt so miserable that, boy as he was, his throat ached, and unshed tears stung his eyelids.
Constancy felt strange thrills.
She dashed into the midst of the others, as they came out, and breathlessly remarked on the beauty of the bridge they were crossing, “So picturesque,” she said.
“If the stream was clean,” said Guy.
“Well, you often call a dirty child picturesque; why not a dirty river, with a tree and a barn, or whatever it is? I think it’s beautiful.”
“Beauty that is marred,” said Guy.
“Then it has more human interest,” said Constancy. “It is another aspect of what I said about the summeriness of London.”
She dashed into the discussion, and talked brilliantly, rousing both Guy and Cuthbert Staunton to talk too, while Godfrey hung behind, angered more than ever. He was obliged occasionally to speak, and even to hand tea-cups and open doors for the ladies. Such is the power of civilisation. As she talked and smiled and managed, into her complex mind there flashed new ideas, and new knowledge. She had learned ever so much by that queer little interview. All kinds of new “mind stuff” had come into her head. She had conceived her part of the scene very badly—but certainly—it was an experience, and as they drove home through the rainy mist, the experience translated itself into all sorts of forms. Godfrey had held the door of the waggonette for her; had given her her wraps, had offered all politeness, but he had neither spoken to her, nor touched her hand.
“Yes,” she thought, as she laid her head on her pillow, “I can’t be sorry for any experience. It’s quite different from reading about it.”
Then suddenly, as she lay in the darkness, she not only knew, but felt; something new and strange did indeed sweep over her, an overwhelming might be. Her spirit fell before it, and she hid her face, and cried.
“Cosy, did you find the situation bigger than you expected?” said Florella.
Constancy was silent till she could trust her voice, then said, abruptly—
“Yes; I wasn’t skilful. Never mind, I’ll manage better another time. I think it was inevitable—really.”
“And you don’t—”
“Don’t reciprocate? No! It would upset all my ideas to marry before I’m twenty-five. And oh—you know, Flo, the Waynfletes are a fine type, and so on; but, dear me, one belongs to another century, another world, another universe. I don’t know where the dividing line is exactly; but there’s a mighty deep one somewhere.”
“Perhaps he’ll cross it—now.”
“He did beat the record for the wide jump at his college!” said Cosy. “But he’s just like his great-aunt. How could one marry a person who thinks it signifies so dreadfully what one thinks about everything. It’s not that such as we think differently; but we don’t think it matters much what we think, and they do.”
“Poor Godfrey Waynflete!” said Florella. “He certainly thinks it matters what you think about him.”
“Good night,” said Cosy, ending the conversation.