Part 3, Chapter I.
Handicapped.
In the meantime Godfrey, stung to the very quick by Constancy’s shallow answer to the confession which he had forced from the depths of his soul, was kicking against the pricks of disappointed passion, and trying to persuade himself that they did not hurt him. He could not work, he barely scraped through his final examination; he could think of nothing but how to escape from himself. He could not face Guy till his plan of restitution was matured, and he caught at the Rabys’ invitation to go and spend a gay Christmas among a lively set of other young people at Kirkton Hall. He was very miserable, but, when people are young and strong, it is possible to be amused in spite of inward misery, and nobody guessed that Godfrey was either conscience-stricken or broken-hearted; and while he was thus keeping thought at bay, there befell him a great and unexpected temptation.
Jeanie, being now at Rilston with the Matthew Palmers, appeared on the scene in the altogether new light of a flattered and considered guest. She was talked of as a prize to be won, and in some occult and mysterious manner it was conveyed to Godfrey that this prize might be his for the asking.
Perhaps her Palmer kindred, who were people of much sense in a quiet way, knew what might be the lot of a simple and homely little girl whose great fortune bought a husband of good family and with bad debts. And Godfrey Waynflete, even if his fortune was not great, was no doubt a shrewd young fellow, or his shrewd old aunt would never have preferred him to his elder brother.
These ideas were conveyed by sober Palmer cousins to Godfrey’s mind, and they offered him the chance of a life of his own apart from Waynflete and Ingleby. Guy would have fewer scruples if Godfrey did not need the wrongfully gained inheritance. These purposes served as excuses, but it is an old story and never a very creditable one; Godfrey’s heart or, rather, his hand, was just ready to be “caught on the rebound.” Constancy’s contrast had a double charm. And Jeanie, who had always loved attention, now that she could attract it, like Miss Mercy Pecksniff, rose to the occasion. She had both sense and self-esteem, she was no longer the meek little cousin ready to make herself useful, and though she had an honest fancy for Godfrey, life had blossomed out with new possibilities. She knew very well that he had never sought her before, and she did not mean him to walk over the course. Pretended indifference was due to her ideas of propriety.
It was intoxicating to find herself made much of by a number of lively young people, all of the sort she knew, and liked, who flirted in her own style, and talked the kind of talk to which she could respond. Under such encouragement she was both pretty and lively, and the young folks at Kirkton and the neighbourhood had what Godfrey, and even Guy a year before, would have thought a very good time. One thing led to another, jokes to blushes, blushes to whispers, whispers to a half-acknowledged understanding, and almost before Godfrey knew what he was about he had practically committed himself, been laughed at and congratulated, and, by the time Christmas week was over, would have been irrevocably bound, had Jeanie ever allowed him to come quite to the point.
There had been one of those friendly dances among an intimate set of very young people, when much can pass as the jest of the moment, though the undercurrent of earnest gives the jest its charm.
Godfrey and Jeanie had waltzed and whirled through more dances than the young lady chose to count, and Godfrey’s last sight of her was as she skimmed along the polished floor of the gallery after Minnie Raby, refusing to stop and say good night. She peeped round the corner, and flung a rose right into his face, then vanished into her room and banged the door, while a sound like “To-morrow!” caught his ear. Every one was saying good night and running about. She had just refused him the rose in a cotillion, all was “jest and youthful jollity,” but Godfrey felt that “to-morrow” was big with fate. For about the tenth time that evening, he informed himself that he had completely forgotten Constancy.
Before he came downstairs the next day, two letters were brought to him. One was from the young vicar of Waynflete, stating that a thaw having taken place on the Sunday after Christmas, four umbrellas had been put up during service, and did Mr Waynflete see his way to a subscription for mending the church roof? The letter was several pages long, and gave a very unflattering picture of the condition of the Waynflete property. The vicar expressed himself with youthful energy, and begged the owner of the property to come and see for himself what had to be done.
And let Godfrey say what he would, he was that owner. The other letter was from Guy, and did not fill half a sheet.
“Dear Godfrey,—
“There is a great deal that must be faced and settled. Pray come home at once, for I must know what you mean to do, and the frost made me so good for nothing that I don’t see my way to getting on without help. I am better now, and Staunton is here with me.
“Your affectionate brother,—
“Guy Waynflete.”
This letter brought Godfrey face to face with his own intentions. If he really meant to present himself before Jeanie’s trustees he must know exactly what he had to say to them. There must be no false pretences. He would go back to Ingleby that very day. His decision, when he proclaimed it, roused a chorus of opposition.
“He must come back for the dance on Twelfth Night.”
“Oh yes! I mean to come back,” said Godfrey, steadily, with a glance at Jeanie. “But I must go home now. I’ve sent off a telegram to say so.”
He got off as soon as he could, and told Jeanie as he wished her good-bye that he was coming back again. But he forgot the rose, and left it in a glass on his dressing-table.
On the next morning, on the last day of the old year, the two brothers found themselves alone and face to face, each determined to say his say; Guy watching his big young brother with quiet intentness, and Godfrey heeding nothing but his own purpose. He spoke first—
“Guy, I must make you understand once for all that I am not going to act under the will which Aunt Waynflete meant to destroy. I won’t profit by it, and it is important to me just now that every one should know that I regard it as a dead letter. I’ve thought the matter out—the thing must be done legally; I shall execute a deed of gift which will give Waynflete and the money left with it to you and your heirs for ever. And I will have nothing more to do with it. That is one thing.”
“And what is the next?” said Guy.
“As to the business, I quite see the difference made by the bad times, and poor returns. I suppose we want more capital. There’s young Mat Palmer. If you offered him a partnership, he might put money into the concern, and would do the work as well. As for me, of course any profits that come from my shares under the first will are fairly mine, as I must bear any loss also. And I don’t wish to cut myself out of the concern. But I want to know exactly how I stand, on that footing.”
“Well,” said Guy, “anything else?”
“Yes; I have practically engaged myself to marry Jeanie Palmer. I made a great mistake last summer in—in—what then passed. That’s over, but I must know, of course, exactly what I’m liable for here, before I can honourably speak to old Matthew.”
“Anything more?” said Guy again.
“No,” said Godfrey, with some dignity. “That’s what I had to say.”
“And what,” said Guy, “do you suppose are the profits of the Waynflete estate which you’re going to give me?”
“I suppose it has a value.”
“Godfrey,” said Guy, suddenly, “I beg your pardon. I did not mean to take this tone at all. But I too have a great deal to say, and it’s hard. I—I’m not strong, you know, and you must be very patient with me while I tell you. And first, I want you to answer me one or two questions.”
“Well?” said Godfrey, surprised in his turn.
“What do you consider was the great object of Aunt Margaret’s life?”
“To get back Waynflete—to restore the family.”
“Is it the same thing?”
“Well, yes, isn’t it? She thought so.”
“She did. Now, what was your object when you made that vow, which I suppose you are now trying to carry out?”
“To get rid of Waynflete, to free my conscience, to do you justice,” said Godfrey.
“You mean that you did not want me to suffer because your proceeding made me too late to persuade Aunt Margaret that she had misjudged me?”
“Well, yes.”
“Now listen. Please don’t speak till I’ve told you—even if I stop.”
Then Guy briefly recapitulated his recent history, beginning with the midnight alarm which Godfrey remembered at Waynflete. He told the awful story in the driest and most matter-of-fact way, showing no trace of the effort which it cost him, while Godfrey listened in utter silence.
“Now,” Guy continued. “Staunton will tell you particulars. I thought it right you should know how I’m handicapped. No wonder our ancestors drank or blew their brains out. Whether you think I have a tile loose or no, there’s no doubt our family went down through its own wickedness, and Aunt Margaret pulled it up again by pluck and resolution. But the business isn’t done, and instead of throwing over Waynflete to me, you ought to do your part of the work she left us.”
Godfrey nodded; he was pale, and could not speak. He was perplexed, but he heard the story with instinctive belief.
“She has set us on our legs,” Guy went on; “but the place is a sink of wickedness, and poverty-stricken into the bargain. I have had letters from Clifton, and I know. Now, I’ve come to see that it’s no good saving my own skin, or my own soul either, while that’s the case. We have got really to restore Waynflete, but I can’t do it alone. If I get too bad, in mind or body, to carry on the business, it would have to be sold, and then He— No, stop. I love the very breath of the air of it! Why, Godfrey, we should be contemptible scoundrels to give in while there’s breath in our bodies, or sense in our brains.”
Godfrey still sat silent. If Guy was handicapped, how heavily had he handicapped himself! Still, devotion to his brave old aunt’s purpose, the inheritance which, after all, was bred in his bone, began to stir within him. He got up and held out his hand.
“I’ll help,” he said hoarsely.
Guy’s hand, all bones and blue veins, met the firm muscular fingers in an equally vigorous clasp.
“That’s good!” he said. “We’ll do it.”
“But, Guy,” said Godfrey, after a silence, “you know, if I’d known about it, I never would have left you alone with a ghost—never!”
Guy laughed. “Never mind that now,” he said. “Go down to the mill, and get John Henry Cooper to tell you how things are. He’s made of just as sound stuff as his father, and is a good deal sharper. We’ll pull round. But you must get your hand in. Some one must be able to go about and investigate openings and offers, and I can’t at present. As for Jeanie, you’d better let that slide, I should say, for a bit. Old Mat won’t be very encouraging, when he knows how it is with us.”
Godfrey went to the mill, and heard John Henry Cooper’s business statements almost in silence. Then he said—
“I am here now to do what Mr Guy is not strong enough to manage. He will direct everything.”
“Ay, sir, so best; you’ll not better Mr Guy’s notions of business requirements; but it’s nothing but your place to do your utmost for the business,” said Cooper, composedly.
As Godfrey went back to his brother, it struck him how strange it was that the two narratives to which he had just listened should apply to the same person, that the sharp, keen struggle for success in life, and the awful mystical combat with an unknown power, should hang on the same indomitable will.
“Guy,” he said, “it’s all right. Cooper’s going to show me about wool samples to-morrow, and—and—I wish you’d let me black your boots for you!”
“If you like,” said Guy, with his odd little smile. “You shall do all the dirty work for me. There’s plenty of it in a mill.”