His chief comfort was the entire and unexpected devotion of old John Cooper. He obeyed Guy loyally, but he also watched over him like a father. He had a careful old wife, who sent him in cups of tea, and provided him with luncheons, and this care he contrived should be extended to the young man too. He worked hard, so as to save him exertion, and never resented the quick, sharp orders, or the short, absent manner, and Guy was grateful—more grateful than he knew how to show. The old manager’s devotion helped him very much. There was Rawdie, also, whom he had begged of Godfrey, who slept on his bed and nestled at his side, and was a living presence, and a loving one too.
If the demands of the business upon him saved his wits, it strained them to the utmost. It was touch and go with Palmer Brothers, all through the winter, and if Guy had not been as clever as he was desperate, they must have gone under. It was just a case of holding on. If that had been all, he could hardly have borne it. But such anxiety was swept out of his mind by the other thoughts that thronged upon him. He could not sleep, so he read half the night—medicine and science, metaphysics and religion, magic and mysticism, demonology and witchcraft, theories of heredity and legends of possession, psychical researches and spiritual revelations. And then it struck him that the Bible might throw some light on the subject. He had learned “divinity,” and frequently heard and occasionally read the lessons, like other well-brought-up young men; but he had never read it with any personal object. He came to the conclusion that Saint Paul knew something about the matter. “Resisting unto death—striving against sin,” exactly expressed it. And sometimes the foe pressed hard and home—and then there were perilous moments for reason’s sway. Guy looked the haunting terror in the face. He took its likeness—“wrote it down,” as he had said—spoke to it—defied it—well, those were times better forgotten, and when Rawdie hung on to his trousers and pulled him back, he knew that he was making a mad rush at—nothing at all. But more and more the conviction strengthened, that whatever personal influences shaped the forms of his experience, behind it lay a “power outside himself that made for” evil, a power at one with all the evil of the world. Where, then, was the power that makes for good?
He sat alone one evening by the study fire, and asked this question in vain. Could he hold on any longer? He was so lonely, and the weather was so cold, it took away all his little strength. Godfrey was not coming home for Christmas. Nerves and brain would endure no longer the solitude—that was not solitude. He put his hand over his eyes.
“If Rawdie had not been there last night.” But Rawdie had been there—there always was something. As to the mill, there were flashes of certainty as to the right course, and a word or a kindly deed of old Cooper’s just gave strength to put them in practice. The sun struggled through the fog yesterday, and raised his spirits; the day before there was a letter from Cuthbert. Sometimes he dreamed of Florella, or the sense that she was “helping” pressed warm upon his soul. And now there was the connected thought of all these rescuing facts. But the source from which they came was veiled. He could not “feel” good as he “felt” evil. He could not trust himself to think of the gun in the gun-cupboard at the side of the bookcase, of the doctor’s medicine, of which too large a dose would be so easy—of the brandy in the cellar—which would drown all this agony or give strength to defy it. These images of escape pressed on him like living souls. Either would be so easy. Pray? Yes, but in such moments, before the prayer is offered, the victory must be won. The will of steel that had endured so much was breaking now. Guy got up and thought that he would look at that gun, which had been unused all the autumn. The drops were upstairs, and the brandy was in the cellar; but the gun was in the very room. He went over to the cupboard; but he was dizzy, and his hand shook a little; the key did not turn very easily. He fumbled with it. If he shot himself, what would happen to his double? Why—that would be gone out of the world with himself—and the world would go on without him. Would Florella ever learn to paint blue harebells in the sun? The dancing flowers shone and smiled before his mental vision. The key turned in his hand; but he turned it back again.
“I can bear it—another day,” he thought, as he leaned against the bookcase, with his hand still on the key.
Suddenly Rawdie burst into loud barking; the door bell pealed through the empty house. Guy started away from the cupboard, the room door opened, and a telegram was brought in.
“Don’t like your last note. Coming to you for Christmas; arrive 9:30. Staunton.”
When the door was shut again, Guy flung the key of the gun-cupboard into the fire, and fell down on his knees and gave thanks. Assuredly it was not himself that had saved him.
When Cuthbert came, after a long day of travel from the far west, he found supper ready, lights bright and fire warm, and Guy with a welcome that was beyond words, quiet and even cheerful, but so white and worn, that his friend rejoiced in the sudden impulse that had induced him to brave his sisters’ wrath, and give up Christmas at home to come to him.
“Why are you alone,” he said. “Where is Godfrey?”