“I know what I meant,” said Godfrey; “but, of course, I’ve given you the right to say what you please to me.”
“No,” said Guy, after a moment’s silence. “Don’t be angry. I’m disappointed, and there’s more in it than I can tell you now. But—shake hands. There’s only us two in the world. Of course I knew you wouldn’t wrong me of a halfpenny. And I’ll take good care no one thinks you have.”
Godfrey shook the offered hand, in a formal, schoolboy fashion. He had nothing more to say. His feelings were too strong to be articulate, and he was, moreover, desperately afraid of making Guy faint.
So that he was not sorry when Cuthbert came back and turned him out. He had made his confession, but nothing in those dreary days seemed real to him, not even himself.
Part 2, Chapter IX.
The White Wreath.
There could not be much sorrow at Waynflete for so new a comer, but there was much respectful interest. All the villagers crowded into the little church and churchyard on the stormy morning of Mrs Waynflete’s funeral, at their head “soft” Jem, with a bit of crape on his sleeve; and the neighbouring gentry and clergy either came themselves or sent their carriages to follow the procession from the church to Kirk Hinton station. The actual mourners were few, and Cuthbert Staunton came into the church behind the two brothers.
“She said that she forgave your family,” Guy said gravely. “It is right that you should be there.”