“I’m not up to long explanations,” he said; “but you ought to know at once that matters are in a bad way at the mill. It will take every penny we both possess, and all the energy and sense too, to pull through and turn the corner. Things have been going downhill for some time. Look here—”
Here he showed the statement which he had partly prepared to lay before his aunt, adding a few explanations and comments.
“Then—is the mill going to fail?” said Godfrey, confusedly.
“Not if I can help it,” answered Guy. “No! But we’ve got our work cut out for us.”
“But we couldn’t take out—realise—any part of the capital.”
“Rather not,” said Guy, with a shrug. “But what I want to say is this. You can’t do anything till you have taken your degree—except give your consent to certain measures. I’ll explain by-and-by. But, then, if you come back, and give your mind to it and work, as the old folks did, we’ll get on our legs again. I—of course Aunt Margaret thought you would be able to live at Waynflete.”
“Nothing would induce me to live at Waynflete, apart from the horrible injustice of it—I hate it. I should never endure it!”
“Shouldn’t you?” said Guy, and paused for a minute. “Then, I think you should use some of the investments to put it properly to rights, and let it again. Don’t sell it.”
“I don’t regard it as mine to sell,” said Godfrey; “and no—that would be undoing all she lived for.”
“Just so. And remember this. We owe it to her strong purpose that we’re not driving some one else’s plough, or working at some one else’s looms; that we are as we are, such as it is. That work can’t be undone. I don’t mean to give up. But, I can’t depend on my own health, or powers; I mayn’t live long, or be able to work constantly. But if you co-operate, we’ll pull through. Aunt Margaret trusted you, and you’re bound not to disappoint her. Her memory shall not be dishonoured.”